I look at the hole in my shorts and wonder how it got there. I blame my keys. I carry them on my belt loop, and the keys dangle and rub against my shorts, causing a grease stain, and the sharpness of those keys must’ve caused a rip in the shorts.

I’ve had these shorts for many years, so it’s time to buy a new pair. I’m sure no one notices the rip but me.

I don’t like shopping for clothes. I don’t like shopping. What is it about it that I hate so much? Is it the fact that I have to spend money or the fact that I hate driving to the mall and trying on clothes in the fitting rooms? I think it’s both. I used to love the mall. It was the place I used to hang out at when I was a kid all through high school just to get away from home. Now I’m like my father who hates the mall, the crowds that occupy the space in there. I don’t want to share the same air as them. I would rather be somewhere else than there, but I don’t know where I would be.

Shopping malls are abundant around here, shopping centers that is. I can close my eyes and point at one from wherever I stand. But I don’t want to go there. I step into fitting rooms with several clothes and try them on. They all fit so nicely. I’m not sure what they do to those mirrors that make the clothes look so good on me because when I get home, the clothes suddenly lose their luster. I want to throw them away and buy something else. But they still beat my old clothes, which turn to rags. I look at them and wonder how the hell I wore them in the first place. They’re old and wrinkled and dirty. Why didn’t anyone tell me the shape they were in? I didn’t realize it until it was too late.

And as for socks, I lose them far too often. Socks seem to have feet and run away. They end up somewhere somehow where I can’t find them, or they get holes because my toenails are too sharp. I go through socks too easily. As for shoes, I have about five pairs. I haven’t counted. I’m not a sneakerhead, but I know people who own closets full of shoes. I worked with a guy who wore a different pair just about every day. I lost count of them. They were usually Adidas, sometimes Nike. But they were always sneakers. Does anyone even use that word anymore? Sneakers. I just hear people call them shoes. Sneakers is like trousers. No one says trousers anymore. I’m not sure that I know what trousers are. It’s old school like supper instead of dinner.

I might have to go to a funeral, so I should keep a suit nearby somewhere. The truth is I don’t currently have a suit. My slacks ran off somewhere where my socks hang out, and I need to buy more nice black socks to go with my black loafers. I don’t have any ties either. And what happened to my coat? Where did those things go? I had them about five years ago, but they vanished. I don’t remember throwing them away. Did someone steal them from my closet? How would they do that? Who would steal my clothes? That’s impossible. No one wants my clothes.

All I wear now are shorts and shirts because it’s too damn hot like I said. It won’t cool down for another three months. I can’t wait for that to happen. Until it does, I’ll dress as if I’m at the beach, even though I never go to the beach. It would sure be nice though, after living in the desert for this long.

Another thing that I do is I don’t wear shirts with any sort of label on them or any statements. I just wear plain shirts. Right now I’m wearing a wine-colored shirt that’s blank because it’s Tuesday. Tomorrow I’ll wear a gray shirt that’s also blank. I schedule what clothes to wear on what days so that I can keep track of which days of the week it is. On Mondays, it’s a navy blue shirt; Tuesdays, it’s a wine-colored shirt; on Wednesdays, it’s a gray shirt; Thursdays, it’s a blue flower shirt; Fridays, a white paisley shirt; Saturdays is a gray buttoned-down short sleeve shirt; and Sunday is old man flower shirt day.

I have two pairs of shorts: one red and the aforementioned blue. Why do they call them pairs of shorts? There aren’t two shorts, just one. Just call them shorts or short. I wore my blue short today.

At least I know how to match. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to match. Some people are blind when they put on clothes, like my father. You couldn’t show him that striped shirts don’t go with plaid pants, or that a flannel doesn’t go with slacks. So he carries on. I know exactly what to do. I couldn’t tell you where I learned it. It’s just a gift of mine.