“I Don’t Have Anything to Wear”

Before I begin, let me make another important announcement for the sake of peace in my home.

This article is not about my wife.

If she laughs while reading it, that is between her and her conscience.

Now, gentlemen, let us discuss one of life’s greatest mysteries.

Saturday evening.

Church is less than twenty-four hours away.

The house is peaceful.

Suddenly, you hear a familiar sentence.

“I don’t have anything to wear tomorrow.”

You freeze.

Not because you believe it.

Because you have walked past a wardrobe that could comfortably start its own clothing business, employ staff, and open a second branch.

You cautiously ask, “Do you mean you don’t know what to wear, or you actually don’t have anything to wear?”

She looks at you with deep disappointment, the kind usually reserved for husbands who forget anniversaries.

“You won’t understand.”

At that point, the consultation begins.

The wardrobe opens.

Out comes Dress Number One.

“I wanted to wear this, but look at the back.”

Dress Number Two.

“The neck doesn’t sit well anymore.”

Dress Number Three.

“The zip is acting up.”

Dress Number Four.

“The colour doesn’t feel right.”

Dress Number Five.

“I wore this to Auntie’s birthday.”

Dress Number Six.

“I have already posted pictures wearing this.”

Dress Number Seven.

“This one is nice, but it’s not giving what I want to give tomorrow.”

I do not know what tomorrow is asking for, but apparently Dress Number Seven cannot provide it.

At this point, I am wondering whether these dresses have secretly offended someone, perhaps each other, perhaps her, perhaps me without my knowledge.

Then comes the footwear discussion.

“Even if I wear this dress, which heels will match it?”

I quietly suggest a pair.

“No, those are for another outfit.”

I suggest another.

“No, those are too formal.”

A third.

“They don’t go with this handbag.”

A fourth, offered mostly out of desperation now.

“Those ones are giving auntie at a burial, not giving Sunday service.”

I surrender. I did not know shoes could give things. I only know they used to simply be worn.

Then comes the evidence.

“You remember the picture I sent you on Instagram? That was exactly what I wanted.”

I reply, “Which picture?”

“The one I sent three months ago.”

I begin scrolling. I do not remember. I will never remember. Apparently, husbands are expected to remember screenshots the way historians remember national events, complete with dates, context, and significance for future generations.

Then comes the phone with screenshots in it’s gallery for reasons that remain unclear to me, in which the entire wardrobe crisis is re-explained from the beginning, with fresh outrage, as though I had not just spent the last twenty minutes hearing the exact same complaints in the exact same order.

Then comes the judgment.

“You didn’t buy it.”

“So this is your fault.”

Ladies have a remarkable gift. A problem can travel through several roads, several dresses, several phone calls to relatives, and still arrive, without fail, at the husband.

Just when I think there is no solution, I remember.

“But didn’t I buy you a beautiful dress recently?”

There is silence.

Then suddenly.

“Oh! I forgot about that one.”

Victory. Or so I think.

“But I was planning to wear that to Sarah’s wedding.”

“When is the wedding?”

“Maybe in eight months.”

Eight months.

The dress has already been reserved. Filed. Locked away for an event that does not yet have a date, a venue, or apparently even a confirmed guest list, but already has an outfit.

Then comes the master plan.

“That is also the dress I want to wear with the new wig I am going to buy.”

The wig has not been bought.

The wedding is months away.

But the outfit, the wig, and, I suspect, matching earrings not yet purchased, have already been fully booked, coordinated, and approved by a committee of one.

Meanwhile, Sunday morning arrives, and with it, a new emergency. We are now running late, not because anything was actually wrong, but because the final fifteen minutes were spent staring into the wardrobe one last time, just to be sure nothing had changed overnight. I am the one who ends up driving faster than the Ten Commandments strictly recommend, because apparently my punctuality is also part of this arrangement.

I think the wardrobe has finally rested.

Not at all.

Sunday evening arrives, and another familiar sentence appears.

“I don’t know what to wear to work tomorrow.”

The same wardrobe.

The same consultation.

The same investigation.

The same conclusion.

“I have nothing to wear.”

By Monday, I have stopped being surprised. By Tuesday, I have started nodding before the sentence is even finished. By Wednesday, I have accepted that “nothing to wear” is not a statement about clothes.

It is a state of mind.

So these days, when I hear those words, I simply nod with great wisdom, offer no shoe suggestions unless directly and specifically asked, and keep a short, pre-approved list of safe compliments ready at all times, the way some men keep a spare tyre in the boot. I know better than to argue with a wardrobe. Nobody has ever won that argument, and I do not intend to be the first casualty.

Before I end, let me repeat what I said earlier.

This article is not about my wife.

She is wonderfully organised, never worries about clothes, never sends Instagram screenshots, never reserves dresses a year in advance, and certainly never blames her husband.

At least, that is the official version.

And to my fellow husbands, may your answers always be correct, your compliments always arrive on time, and may you never accidentally suggest the wrong pair of shoes.

Power to women.

As for me, they already say I am not romantic, so I have decided to protect the little reputation I have left, one safe compliment and one reserved dress at a time.