By Mike Gordon
Advertiser Staff Writer

Next time, I'm going to listen to that little voice in my head before the words come out. That way, I won't have to deal with another personal revelation.

The truth, I found, was more frightening than a frayed hem.

In my defense, I have to say the whole thing began innocently. As part of my list of New Year's resolutions (the ones I usually forget by February), I told Mrs. G. that I wanted to dress better.

Oh, foolish, foolish me.

Her eyes lit up like a hungry tiger who spies a small furry creature.

"Well then," she said, as she shoved our startled daughters into the car, "LET'S GO SHOPPING!"

No one needs to tell me that men are fashion-conscious. I think we evolved onto our hind legs so we could wear $80 silk aloha shirts and Italian loafers. I see proof of this every day, although not in my own closet.

I fall somewhere between bearskin and silk neckties. I'm a missing link in a T-shirt and slippers. If form follows function, then I'm comfort driven.

The most common clothing argument I have with Mrs. G. — a woman who could write the book on shopping — involves the reasons why I don't need to tuck in my polo shirt.

That doesn't mean I can't appreciate quality clothing. I genuinely like the look of expensive clothing.

I can see myself in these quality items. I just can't see myself buying them.

My problem is that I never got into shopping. It could also be that I'm spoiled. I haven't had to buy new clothes since I was single ... even underwear. The stuff just shows up for me to try on.

The only requirement is I have to iron what I wear. Every week, that's me pressing shirts and pants. Thank goodness for ESPN and Howard Stern.

On this recent buying adventure, as we headed into our first store, Mrs. G. reminded me that I still owned clothes purchased when we first got married. President Bush was in office then, she said. The older one.

"But they have sentimental value," I said. "You taught me to iron on those shirts."

Inside, I found I was not alone. The store was full of men, and women shopping for them. The women would grab a shirt or pair of slacks and hold them against their partner until they found something they liked.

I don't think the men had much say in this.

As we drew closer to the racks of clothes, my two daughters decided to help their mother. Before I knew it, I had three people holding clothing against my body like I was some kind of giant Ken doll.

"Look! This one's on sale! We can buy two!"

"What do you think? Pink?"

"Mom, this style is very popular. All the boys in school wear their pants down there."

I tried to object, but my mouth moved without sound, like when you see a fish out of water.

Other men began to stare. Was it empathy or envy? But — and this is the revelation, the shame I feel all the way to my wrinkled cuffs —ÊI liked it.

Oh my God, I thought. I am a closet clotheshorse.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com or 525-8012.