or – the effect of a pretty girl on men’s clothing
Human Psychology says that what clothing a man wears is very dependent on the reward he expects to receive in return for any extra effort it takes to look a little better. In other words, the greater the potential of reward, the better a man will dress. However, there is a conflicting theory that says as a man grows older, he couldn’t care less what he looks like, regardless of the potential of reward.
Let’s look at an example. Given the potential to interact with the pretty girl (pictured), and the effects of aging, here are my observations on men dressing:
You are in the middle of some kind of fix-up project around the house, such as mowing the lawn, putting in a new fence, painting the living room, or whatever. You are hot and sweaty, covered in dirt or paint. You have your old “work clothes” on, and you know exactly the outfit I’m talking about: that old Boy George and the Culture Club t-shirt with yellowed armpits, the shorts with the hole in the crotch, and an old pair of white tennis shoes, the toes of which are grass-stained green.
Right in the middle of the most crucial part of your home improvement project, you realize you need to run to WalMart to get something to complete the job. Since you will have to inter-act with people, you will do one of the following depending on your age:
You stop what you are doing. Take a shower. Shave. Blow-dry your hair. Brush your teeth. Floss. Gargle. Put on neat, clean, leisure-lifestyle clothes. You check your face and your abs in the mirror and flex your biceps. You add a splash of your cheap cologne Aunt Margaret bought you for your birthday. You never know, you just might meet some hot chick while standing in the checkout lane. Actually, it turns out you go to school with the pretty girl running the register.
You stop what you are doing, put on clean shorts and polo shirt. Change your shoes. You married the hot chick who worked the WalMart register, so there’s no need to be prowling around. Wash your hands and comb your hair. Check yourself in the mirror. You still got it. To cover the smell of sweat, you add a shot of your AXE cologne – which you can afford now that you have a job. The cute girl running the register is the younger sister to someone you went to high school with.
You stop what you are doing. You put on a sweatshirt that is long enough to cover the broken zipper of your shorts. Put on different shoes and a hat to cover your mussed hair. Wash your hands. Your bottle of Brute cologne is almost empty and you don’t want to waste any of it on a trip to WalMart. Check yourself in the mirror and do more belly-sucking-in than flexing. The spicy young thing running the register at WalMart is your daughter’s age and you feel kind of creepy for just talking to her. You wonder how many guys think your daughter is just as spicy.
You stop what you are doing. Put a hat on to cover your hair loss, wipe the dirt off your hands onto your shirt. Change shoes because you don’t want to track dirt into your brand new sports car. Check yourself in the mirror. Swear not to wear that shirt anymore because it accentuates your man-boobs. The cutie running the register smiles when she sees you coming and you think you still have what it takes. What you don’t realize is that the T shirt you have on is from your buddy’s bait shop and it says, “I Got Worms.”
You stop what you are doing. Realize that you need to go to WalMart to get something you’ll need to finish the job. Don’t bother with your face or your shirt — why would you? You haven’t bothered to check yourself in the mirror since you turned 58. There is no need for a hat anymore, either. Hose the dog poop off your shoes. As you drive to the WalMart, you remember there’s a hole in your shorts and you hope you have some underwear on.
You forget what you are doing. Remember what you were doing. Start doing it again. Remember why you stopped the first time. You decide to wait to go to Walmart until you go in the house and get your prescriptions so you can have them filled at the same time. Don’t see, smell, or even care that there is dog poop on your shoes. The young thing at the register smiles at you because you remind her of her grandfather who recently passed away.
You stop what you were doing. Rest. Start again. Then stop again. Rest. Now you remember that you need to go to WalMart for something to finish the job. Go to WalMart and wander around trying to remember what it was you came for. Fart out loud and turn around because you think someone called out your name. Leave streaks of dog poop off your shoes from the front to the back of the store. Stop to talk to the decrepit, crotchety old lady that greeted you at the front door and discover that she went to school with you.