I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas - Lewis Black [26]
Only later, when I put on the shirt at home and looked at myself in the mirror, did I discover that I looked like a diseased radish.
I won’t wear a tie on Christmas Day. That’s pushing it. But I need something nice, as well as comfortable, because I have two big meals to go to at two different friends’ houses, so this is a long day ahead of me. Even though it’s not a date and there will be no women I need to impress with my sartorial splendor, I still have to go through all of my clothes carefully. There are shirts that I bought and brought home and have never worn. Exhibit A: the Diseased Radish look; or exhibit B: the Sad Avocado look. (This is why I don’t buy clothes for my friends at Christmas. If I don’t know what looks good on me, how the fuck would I know what will look good on them?)
“Wait a minute, Lewis,” you say. “You go on and on about those in need of food, shelter, and clothing, particularly at this time of year, and you have to hold on to this shirt to prove to yourself that you didn’t make a mistake? Are you insane?”
“Well, someday it will catch my eye. And I did write all those checks so I wouldn’t feel guilty staring at this overstuffed closet.”
“Yeah, but . . .” you might say, then turn away in confusion and disgust.
I don’t blame you. I can’t explain it either.
Who spends their time having these internal conversations with himself, standing naked in front of an open closet, while knowing full well he is never going to put ON that shirt and wear it? Me, that’s who.
But as weird as this is, I also know that this is no day to be experimenting with outfits, no need to look like a deranged peacock on acid, or like a character from Glee. So I mix and match and mix and match like I have never seen these clothes before, as if they just magically appeared in my closet. It used to take me a minute to get dressed. Literally sixty seconds. Now it takes me fifteen minutes, easy, to choose my socks. And if I’m getting dressed for a television appearance or some benefit I am hosting, I can go on and on and ON and take up to an hour.
Where did I go wrong? I can seriously melt down over a clothes selection, as I stand there thinking that the fate of the universe depends on my choice of boxer shorts. If I can just find the right color combination and create just the right subtext of panache, my outfit will align with the stars in such a way that I will finally achieve eternal happiness. I will saunter in my silk boxers through a special door in my imagination that takes me back twenty years, but I’ll know what I know now and will have the sophistication and maturity to contemplate raising a family. Maybe not my family, but somebody’s family. I’m kidding, but it does sound kind of appealing, in a sick sort of way.
Damn it, if I’d only worn the right tie I’d be married now and I’d be headed off to one of my kids’ houses for Christmas dinner.
It’s amazing that one can have these thoughts and somehow avoid being institutionalized.
“Why don’t you just wear something red and something green?” one part of me asks.
“You mean radish and avocado,” another part of me replies. “I don’t think so. No one looks good in radish and avocado.”
“Okay, then, put on something that makes you look less fat.”
This is easier said than done.
I pull out of my closet something that has line and definition so that I will exude the illusion of fitness rather than the appearance of a pregnant man. It’s not a corset, but if they made them for men, someone would make a fortune. I’d even buy one. And I’m not even vain.
So after what feels like I spent most of my afternoon between my closet and my bathroom mirror, I make it out the door.
Finally.
And my Christmas adventure begins.
CHRISTMAS DAY, 1:00 P.M.
Away in a Manger, No Crib for a Bed—Are You Kidding Me?
Since practically every cabdriver in New York seems to have little or no interest in the baby Jesus—yes, I surveyed them; do you think I make this kind of shit up?—the streets on Christmas Day are choked with empty cabs. For God’s sake, they should