No clothes…

I am sitting near the window these days, wishing for a little more light. But all in vain. The winter sky shows teeth, the sun nowhere.
Then suddenly, on a day that was announced as gloomy and cloudy,
the sun shone through an enormous window in my office. Almost immediately, I lowered the curtain. In this long winter, I began to miss the laughter and smiles, and funny scenes. Then, suddenly, on one of the domestic television programs, a cycle of Jiri Menzel’s films started. I watched for half an hour and went to the bathtub. We should be careful with our wishes. They could come true.

I once wanted to be an image consultant. And now I know and notice everything. And also that grayness over Zagreb. Grayness – is a euphemism in this sentence. But that euphemism also resides in my closet, gray in all tones. Mr. Armani would find inspiration for several collections. That grigio tinto, as the gray palette is also called, is dear to me. Less in real life, but more in fashion. Mostly in men fashion. Well-dressed men in gray suits always grab attention. And when those suits fit them well, that is a real winner. But a lot of water will still pass under the bridge before our guys learn to choose clothes for themselves. Unfortunately, this is still done for the most part by women, mothers, girlfriends, or secretaries (or anyone else, by choice). Imagine that if women’s clothes are chosen by men. Everything would be deeply low-cut, too tight and too short, latex, leather, lace, and garters. And heels. So sneaking men have burdened us with the obligation to buy and choose their clothes. There is also an aggravating circumstance – they are picky. And impatient. There is no fitting, except in an emergency. Standby off. Shopping is exhausting.

They would not get exhausted, so we offered. Well, if you like it, O.K. If not, buy for your man pointed hoof, a tracksuit with stripes on the side, and rubber so they can hang the tracksuit under the heel of the shoe, and pants (in “those” places a little tighter), fringed jacket, to shake in the wind. But such a choice would prevent your shopping for him once and for all. So am I, and also a professional, in charge of my half. If it could be recorded, it would be tears. From laughter, of course. Women choose clothes with much less emotion and complications. Recently, my husband and I got stuck in a menswear store in Milan. I tried to stay aside, sat down in the only one of the armchairs on offer in the store, and decided to let go of the roots with a fashion magazine in my hands. Oh, if life were merciful.

He walked up as if he needs to go to the loo. He would stay at each station (read: the end of each shelf) for a few minutes. He took out clothes, returned, chose, and called me for help. I did not even flip through those first few advertising pages when I lost my temper and left the magazine in the only armchair, along with my bag and other things, and I was about to lift my leg and mark my territory. I did not, though. But the chair is mine and over! So I get up and head to the inventory of the pile he managed to stack in front of him. He is waiting for me to drop my judgment.

I picked up a couple of unnecessary and wrong things and sent him to the fitting room. I went back to my chair. Then a young woman approached me and spoke to me in English with a hard German accent: Sorry, but I saw how skillfully you chose (I think I just added this skillfully, a/n) clothes for the gentleman, so I would ask you to help us too. Do not ask. My smile was exceeding my head. I was swelling with pride. In a few words and movements, I single out some things I suggest some, and everything is perfect. And she said again in the same language: But, please, explain it to him.

He will listen to you. I swell with pride. They figured me out. I know! I show-off in myself, around me, and outside of myself. I start explaining and suggesting to the young gentleman when my husband comes out of the cabin and roars: “How about to pay a little attention to me!? And so I left a successful career to dedicate myself to my life vocation. Excuse me, my partner. But that took tact because he chose and rushed like crazy to the wrong clothes. I did not want to give in, and he got angrier and angrier. I went back to my chair and demonstratively leafed through the magazine. He tried on his clothes for another half hour and finally decided. I greeted casual acquaintances, then we paid and left.

I found him the other day in front of a large mirror, combining, changing, dressing, and undressing. But he was not pleased. During that time, I was applying warrior paints in front of the bathroom mirror when he rushed angrily like fury (what is a fury, anyway?!) and roared: cannot anyone help me?
– I can, but that shirt does not fit you. That is not a shirt for you. You do not have a body like that.
– Then why did I buy it?
– You wanted to, and I told you it was not good.
– What is wrong with it?
– Nothing. There is also a surplus. Your belly.

Demonstratively, he undressed on the spot. Shirt, pants, socks. Almost all. And he slammed it all down with all his might on the bathroom floor, shouting: You can do consulting for everyone, but not for me! I walk like a poor man. What can I do when I do not know? I do not know. I do not get the colors. (Who mentioned colors?) I screamed with laughter. And he also. We were late for dinner. We had to do something; no clothes.

TEXT – Andreja Horvatic  PHOTO – Miranda Legovic