Clothes out

The clothes hanger fought my efforts as I tried to pull it from the sale rack. It seemed almost welded to the display until one strong yank suddenly freed it of all its entanglements, including the very thing I had sought to inspect.

The sweatshirt stayed where it was, tightly packed amid a sedimentary layer of similar garments arranged by shade, darkest to lightest. There was no doubt Goodwill vibes were going on at this warehouse sale but I was rapidly losing humor. I plucked the garment from between its peers and held it up, snapping a blurry picture for the boy.

How long had I been here? Up to my elbows in overstock, wondering if he'd like the fawn or the cafe ole? Would he prefer teal or cerulean? All I knew for sure was that this was thankless work. 

It hadn't occurred to me until now that online shopping would still be a necessity even when standing in a brick-and-mortar store.

Yet here I was, draping an array of selections over the store fixtures and snapping away. Folding sleeves and pants' legs into action poses. Getting close-ups knowing the devil would certainly be in the details. 

I should probably feel more embarrassed to be at a store, staring into my phone as I try to curate a cascade of merchandise I've purposely flung akimbo. Is this the knoll I'm willing to die on?

But I don't feel any shame. No one is side-eyeing me over yonder in Men's Large. And I fully plan to return all rejected items to their original places in Men's Small once selections (if any) are made.

Truly, I'm not even a little irritated by my excess of indecision. It has a purpose.

I don't know what he likes. But I know I want him to not just see, but understand, that this triangular panel was a kind of wide-wale peeking out between the seams of flat knit. A glance could be deceiving and could be the deal breaker after the sale.

He has preferences that defy my best intuition. And I know from experience that any clothes I buy without such input are destined to become the unworn merchandise of the local thrift shop after giving up hope that the style grows on him or he outgrows them all together, whichever comes first.

It seems silly, I know. All of this could be avoided if I just made him come along or peruse the modern-day equivalent of the Sears & Roebuck catalog from the comfort of our couch. He could be looking over my shoulder or wading through these close-out clothes himself.

Shopping isn't his thing at the moment, it's mine: I want him to have clothes that fit his growing body and suit the plummeting temperatures. He would just as soon face the winter with a shrug in shorts or ankle-showing pants.

So I send the photos off into the ether and wait for a response I'm not sure will come.

Three dots appear.

"I think I like the lighter one," typed my son.

"What about a sweatshirt?"

"The tan one looks nice."

"Do they have any socks?"

"What color?”

“Anything is fine. And hey, thanks, mom. I hate shopping."