My little cubby-hole of clothes

My wife has ample closet-space. I, on the other hand, have very little. I've been downgraded, my clothing relegated to a tiny nook, a teeny-weenie black hole filled with dust and moths and Hawaiian shirts that haven't seen the light of day since the 80's.

Of course I don't have as many clothes as my wife. I don't need them. Seven pairs of underwear (are they "pairs?" If so, why? Seems to me they're in one piece), boom, laundry day. Works out just fine, clothing minimalism at work.

Shoes? Green tainted lawn mowing shoes and hanging out kicks. That's it.

My wife has a battalion of shoes, an army of feet covering. If it please the court, I submit that shoes should be functional. Provide protection. On a rare occasion, shine at weddings. Actually, most women's shoes don't look comfy. Which should be of the utmost consideration. Walking on spikes has gotta' be killer on your back.

I didn't think relinquishing closet space would be so bad. I mean, years ago I'd already sacrificed my totally awesome bachelor furniture to the dumpster gods: a cardboard, life-size beer girl; a leaking bean bag; an inviting sofa with my butt-prints fossilized upon one end. And, granted, I never did use much of the closet space to begin with. But...but...

When I told my wife I was going to blog about this topic, she basically said, "Good luck. You won't get any sympathy."

I'm not out for sympathy. I'd just like to reclaim the night, grab an extra shelf. Quit having my clothes so compacted they come out more wrinkly than a prune. More often than not, I look like a saggy, baggy elephant.

I know most of my blog readership is comprised of women. But, please, ladies...if you have a significant male other, consider his closetary needs. Give space a chance. Can't we all just get along?

For other horror stories, check out my newest book Ghosts of Gannaway and my Amazon author's page.