The Genetic Curse
Written by Rick Archer

Humorist and occasional fashion consultant Dave Barry once wrote a fascinating article on ugly clothes.  This was his key observation:  "Men are genetically programmed to select ugly clothing."

Mr. Barry said this phenomenon dates back millions of years.  Primitive tribal men responsible for defending their territory would deck themselves out in face paint, animal heads and nose bones. This allowed them to look really hideous and scare off threatening enemy tribes.  Ugly clothes guaranteed that bad guys and predators would take one look, then turn to flee in terror.

Mr. Barry then went on to say that modern golf clothing with its tendency towards quasi-obscene mismatched plaid outfits was in some way related to our prehistoric past.  He offered some sage anthropological wisdom:  "If prehistoric tribal warriors had somehow gotten hold of modern golf clothing, they would have surely ruled the rain forest."

Not only was Mr. Barry certain that possession of modern golf clothing during the Caveman Era would have guaranteed control of the Rain Forest, he took his theory one step further.  Mr. Barry believed professional golfers deliberately wear ugly clothing as a way to disturb their opponents.  In a sport where one stroke can make the difference, even the slightest distraction could determine the outcome.  

Mr. Barry then launched into an explanation of Darwin's Survival of the Fittest theory.  Mr. Barry postulated that men who are drawn to hideous clothing were more likely to survive than men with good taste in clothing, thereby contributing more genes into the next generation, etc, etc.  Hideous clothing is so frightening it would surely subdue enemies into submission and likely ward off dinosaurs as well.  Once rid of their enemies, men wearing hideous clothing would be seen as great and mighty warriors.  This power would make them highly attractive as mating partners, thereby guaranteeing they would have their choice of many attractive women with whom to mate.   

Now it was time for Dave Barry's triumphant conclusion.  When Darwin's Theory was combined with Barry's Golf Clothes theory, this would explain why today there are so many men today who possess the worst taste in clothing imaginable. 

The weakness in this theory is what woman would allow a guy wearing these kind of clothes anywhere near enough to mate?  Mr. Barry had already thought of that.   He said his theory explains why women have learned to tell men to take their clothes off first.  Hmm.  Makes a lot of sense. 

Barry developed a secondary theory that any woman who could turn a blind eye to ugly clothing would increase her chances of marrying a powerful man. 

Mr. Barry may be onto something.  It might help explain why so much ugly clothing exists in modern society.  Obviously Dave Barry is something of a genius for these insights.  As you can see, the interjection of the Repulsive Golf Clothing Theory into Darwinian Survival of the Fittest Principles bears further research.   

 

1984 - ME AND MY BIG MOUTH

On a personal note, in 1984 I was given a chance to test Mr. Barry's theory first-hand.   As background, I was a bit of a retard when it came to Fashion during my younger days.   Since my school required a uniform, I wore khaki pants and a white dress shirt practically every day of my life for nine years.   That plus blue jeans comprised my entire wardrobe.   Given so few options, one corner of my mind remained dormant when it comes to clothing decisions.

Nor was I given a whole lot of clothing advice.   My mother had better things to do than worry about my clothing.  She told me to wear a belt and make sure my socks matched.  The advice ended there.   

Little did I suspect I would one day pay a supreme price for my ignorance.   I was still not quite the sharp-dressed man, but making progress.   Or at least I thought so.  At age 34, I was about to receive some seriously unwelcome enlightenment.     

One day I came early to the dance studio to do some cleaning.  To my surprise, a dance student named Angelica Frias showed up an hour ahead of time for her class.  She apologized for being so early.  She had finished an appointment early and preferred not to drive home and come back again.   Angelica asked if I minded if she just sat and relaxed.  Of course not.  Make yourself comfortable.

Angelica was a tall, slender woman of Latin heritage.  She was 10 years older than me, but one look at her was all I needed to realize age is a state of mind and I wouldn't mind moving to that state.   Angelica was very attractive and possessed a special dignity.  I had a crush on Angelica and who could blame me?   I assumed she was out of my league, but that didn't stop me from daydreaming a little.

I continued to do my chores while Angelica sat on the nearby couch.  I was pleased to have this elegant, attractive woman in the room with me.   As I worked, we chatted.   I discovered that Angelica was a psychiatrist.  At the mention of her profession, I was immediately taken aback.  Darn it.  Now I was even more certain I was no match for her.  Nevertheless, it would be nice to make a friend.  I had learned the easiest way to strike up a conversation is to discuss subjects held in common, so I decided to ask her about her profession. 

At the time, I knew more about Psychology than the average person.  Not only had I majored in Psychology, in 1973-74  I put in a year of graduate work in Clinical Psychology.   I knew just enough Psychology to hang myself.

Let me digress.  The 1971 movie "Billy Jack" was forerunner to the popular Bruce Lee kung fu films.  The vision of Billy kicking nasty rednecks into oblivion inspired countless young men to begin karate class.  I may have been one of them.   At the end of the 8-week course was the big test.  We had to demonstrate our forms and spar against a worthy opponent.   If we passed, we were promoted to Yellow Belt.  The following week, the newly-promoted students were about as cocky as humanly possible.  They were kicking each other and pretend-punching in the process of acting like tough guys.   I doubt seriously I was one of those fools, but I may have been.  You know, it's been a long time. 

Little did we know our black belt instructor was watching us act tough.  When he screamed at us to come to attention, we quickly fell into line.  A lecture ensued. 

"You young men are in worse danger than you realize.  Last week if someone pulled a knife on you in a street fight, you would have had the sense to run.  This week you might just be stupid enough to stick around."

In other words, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. 

So what does this have to do with Angelica?   Like I said, it just so happened I knew a little bit about Psychology.  Now you're catching on.  Hoping to gain favor, I asked Angelica about her profession.   As I listened to Angelica talk about her practice, I showed keen interest by commenting on several points.  I may have even named-dropped Freud and Dr. Ruth in an bold attempt to show off. 

To my delight, Angelica seemed impressed.  She complimented me and said I knew more about Psychology and Psychotherapy than most.  Flattery from a pretty girl has been the road to ruin for many a poor boy.  Like a moron, I quickly blurted out I had once been a Psychology graduate student.  Mind you, I neglected to add they had thrown me out of program.

Note to Reader:  Yeah, they threw me out after one year.  The Chairman of the Department thought my outspoken personality was too aggressive for a healing profession that required sensitivity.  I suppose he was right, but it really stung at the time.   My hurt feelings explains the insecurity that drove me to impress Angelica.   The problem is that I do have a knack for BS.  I suppose I was a bit more persuasive about the extent of my knowledge than was called for. 

Unaware of my Grad School demise, Angelica had no way of knowing that I had come close to exhausting my entire repertoire.  Surprised by my insights into her profession, Angelica became curious about me.   On the spot, Angelica encouraged me to talk about what interested me.  Eager to demonstrate at least a modicum of knowledge, I mentioned Freud, Maslow, Jung, and something called "Gestalt Theory".   I could not help but notice as Angelica beamed with pleasure.   

Why lie about it?   I was very pleased with myself.  But the big question is why on earth she encouraged me.  That actually got my hopes up.  Silly, silly me.   To be honest, I don't know what came over me.   What was I thinking?  Angelica wasn't just a therapist, she was a Psychiatrist with years of training.  She was a DOCTOR and I was a failed graduate student.  I should have sensed she was way out of my league, but I was on a roll and totally unaware my good luck was about to turn. After all, Faint heart ne'er wins Fair maiden. 

Angelica's education and training gave her knowledge that was light years beyond my one crummy year of grad school.  Honestly, I should have kept my mouth shut, but, oh no, stupid me, my male ego just had to engage her on her turf.   However, I was not completely oblivious.  A sense of fear was beginning to creep in.  The moment I realized we were not equals even though I was pretending to be, I began to lose confidence.    

The longer our conversation continued, I worried Angelica might ask me why I did not finish graduate school.  I did not under any circumstances wish to explain why my big mouth had gotten me dismissed from the program.   Therefore, rather than talk about myself, I began to ask questions.  This is an old trick I use when I would rather not disclose my inadequacies. 

One of my questions inquired who had been important in helping her form ideas about family dynamics.   As Fate would have it, totally by accident I had just stumbled on Angelica's favorite topic.  Since her practice revolved around Family Therapy, she replied Murray Bowen had enormous influence on her thinking.  She said Bowen's theory about conflicts arising from family triangles cast significant light on a complicated subject. 

As a side note, Murray Bowen was a leading American psychiatrist and a professor in psychiatry at Georgetown University.  Bowen was among the pioneers of family therapy.  Beginning in the 1950s Bowen developed a systems theory of regarding dysfunctional family interactions.  However, I had never heard of the guy and there was no Wikipedia in those days to turn to. 

The sensible thing was to admit I had no idea who Murray Bowen was, but I was still trying to disguise the fact we had reached the limits of my knowledge.  Instead I innocently asked her to explain a little bit about his ideas.  This turned out to be a serious mistake because Angelica's face lit up brighter than a Christmas tree.   Assuming I was sincerely interested in this topic, she surprised me by offering to let me read a famous article about him.  Without giving it much thought, I naively agreed to do so.  After all, it was the polite thing to do.  I figured she would forget all about the conversation before her next visit to the studio.  And even if she really was serious, why not?   Hey, I know how to read! 

Ignoring the little small voice that whispered, 'Look before you leap,'  I said, "Sure, Angelica, I would like to read your article."  And with that, the jaws of the trap were set in motion.  Not only that, the moment the words left my mouth, a bolt of anxiety swept through me.  

I could not put my finger on it, but I had a sixth sense which indicated I had just made a dreadful mistake.  To this day I don't know how I knew this would be trouble, but I just KNEW.   Too late now.  Before I could say another word, Angelica did something I could never have anticipated in a million years.  Angelica rose from the couch and said she would be right back.   She went to her car and found a mimeographed copy of her favorite Murray Bowen article in her trunk.  As she handed the copy to me with a big smile, Angelica asked me to read it.   Then she added that she would like to know what I thought about it. 

It was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping open.  But there was more!  Before I could head for the Exit Door, Angelica looked me in the eye and invited me to lunch.  I remember her exact words... "Let's get together for lunch later in the week and discuss what you think about this treatise!  Here's my number."

As she wrote her office number on the copy, I stared at her in disbelief.  The moment this distinguished, highly educated woman invited me to lunch to discuss a professional paper, I cannot even begin to explain just how intimidated I felt. 

Let me explain.  I had always operated on the premise that the key to meeting women was to let them see me on a stage where I looked the best.  Indeed, when we danced together, this gentle, graceful Latin lady was not at all threatening.  I had just succeeded in using my Dance Skills to get to First Base.  Then I used my aborted year of clinical training to get to Second Base.  However, the moment she handed me that paper and said she wanted to discuss it, waves of dread passed through me.   Angelica had unwittingly invited me to try for Third Base and I knew for a fact I would be tagged out.  However, there was no way to retreat to safety.

On the spot, Angelica was no longer 'Angelica'.  She was 'Dr. Frias', an imposing, highly-respected psychiatrist, the kind of person with the training to see right through me.  On the dance floor, I had confidence, but we were playing in her stadium now.  The ballgame had moved to her side of town and I was in trouble.

Please note that Angelica was not trying to trap me or be clever.  Not at all.  Angelica was completely sincere in her offer.  This was my own fault.  I had opened the door and she had accidentally assumed I actually knew something about her field.  In return, she had unwittingly turned the tables by inviting me to give her my 'educated opinion'. 

Now I was trapped.  Frightened by a sinking in quicksand feeling, I asked if this was a bad dream.  Nope, this was really happening.  My self-protective instincts screamed at me to offer some excuse, but for the life of me I could not think of a plausible white lie.  I could not see any way to extricate myself with dignity.  And so with a sense of impending doom I reluctantly accepted the invitation. 

 

THINGS ARE WORSE THAN I EVER IMAGINED

At this point other dance students began to show up, so that's where the conversation rested.  As I finished my studio chores, I tried to reassure myself.  Why was I so worried?  Just read the article and go to lunch.  How tough is that?

One thing I have learned is a person's instincts are often way ahead of one's understanding.  That night I discovered I was absolutely correct to be worried.  Oh my God!  From the first paragraph of Angelica's paper, I realized just how much trouble I was in.  The article was only 60 pages long, but it felt like the Iliad & the Odyssey written in ancient Greek.  I cannot honestly recall another time in my adult life when I felt more illiterate than I did that night.  I am not exaggerating.  This was very difficult reading.  There were dozens of phrases that meant nothing to me.  Here, look for yourself.  See if you can do any better!

"Maladaptive psychoneurotic triadic dysfunction, transient situational adjustment reaction, undifferentiated ego mass, motoric inhibition of ideational functioning." 

I copied those phrases directly from the article to give the Reader an idea what I was up against.   Does this thing have Cliff Notes?  Is there an English translation for morons?  What have I gotten myself into?  Incidentally, I don't feel like I have whined enough, so here is some more: 

"The goal of Extended Family Systems Therapy is to increase the individual family member's level of differentiation. Bowen postulated that severe problems within the family unit stem from a multigenerational transmission process whereby levels of differentiation among family members can become progressively lower from one generation to the next. He developed an extended family systems therapy with the goal to increase the level of differentiation among the individual family members. Using the family projection process as well as the differentiation of Self, the individual can create Triangles within the nuclear family emotional system to avoid emotional cutoff. Differentiation of Self refers to one's ability to separate one's own intellectual and emotional functioning from that of the family.

Bowen spoke of people functioning on a single continuum or scale. People with "low differentiation" are more likely to become fused with predominant family emotions. A related concept is that of undifferentiated ego mass, which is a term used to describe a family unit whose members possess low differentiation and are therefore emotionally fused." 

Do you see my point?  Murray Bowen's entire article read like that!  I found this treatise to be utterly incomprehensible.  Sometimes when I read something for a while, I pick up a rhythm and things start to make sense.  No such luck.  As I read the article, I became increasingly aware that every paragraph was going right over my head.  Faced with words and phrases that held no meaning, this paper was directed for a professional audience at the upper strata of Angelica's profession.  It used technical terms that only people trained in the field would be able to comprehend.  No matter how many times I thumbed through my dictionary, I was fighting a losing battle against a technical vocabulary that was foreign to me.  Maybe if I had stayed in the "Biz" and remained familiar with the jargon I might have had more success, but now I felt thoroughly whipped.   I had no choice but admit this stuff was way over my head.  I panicked and flipped the pages looking for an easy part.  No luck.  It was all Greek to me.  The further I got, the more I realized the hopelessness of my plight. 

One question that repeated like a broken record was to wonder what had prompted Angelica to think I could comprehend this material.  What made her believe I could handle this stuff?   My theory is that I had somehow caught her fancy.  Let me explain.  Highly intelligent women who are single have difficulty finding men who share their wavelength.  Not just that, even beautiful women have their dry spells.  Perhaps I caught Angelica between relationships.  Feeling a bit lonely, why not take a chance and lower her standards?  No doubt Angelica sized me up and realized I was a long-shot in the Romance Department, but I could dance, I had hair and I was friendly.  That was enough for a second look.  Besides, what was the harm in following up on our charming afternoon chat? 

I was really mad at myself.  I had tried too hard to impress a beautiful woman and look what I had gotten myself into.  Prior to this I had considered myself to be reasonably intelligent.  But this was a "Mensa-level" challenge clearly beyond my ability.  How was I ever going to face "Doctor Frias" and discuss this paper intelligently?  Through the oddest of circumstances, I had accidentally pulled an Alice in Wonderland and fallen into the rabbit hole. 

Noted philosopher Clint Eastwood once said, "A man's gotta know his limitations."  I had unwittingly exceeded mine.  Expecting to be truly embarrassed by my ignorance, waves of nausea took possession.   This article had demonstrated the existence of an intellectual plateau far beyond my ability.  Truly humbled, my thoughts turned to deception.  Was there some way I could fake my way out of this?   Under no circumstance did I want to admit to Angelica how badly out-classed I was.  So I made a coward's decision.  I decided I would simply try to grasp enough to BS my way through lunch, then stick to the dance floor in the future.  I didn't see any other way out.  My plan was to memorize a few catch phrases and use them here and there.   Then I would fall back on my ploy of posing one question after another.  With any luck at all, maybe I could change the subject to something closer to my station on the IQ Curve like Line Dancing. 

I began to look for important passages to underline, but even this wasn't easy.  I had no idea what was important!  Overwhelmed with futility, I underlined the few passages I could understand.   It took two days, but I finished slogging through the article with great difficulty.  I looked up more words in two days than I had in my entire college career.  My fingers were practically bleeding from frequent visits to the dictionary, but I still had no idea what this article was talking about.

 

TIME TO FACE THE MUSIC

I just wanted to get this over with.  I had been sick in my stomach for the past three days.  I had to get this burden off my back or go crazy.  I decided I understood enough to have a 50-50 chance  to fake my way through lunch, so I called Angelica at her office to report in.  She greeted me with warmth and was pleased to hear I had read the article.  I groaned inwardly at the encouragement in her voice.  I squirmed when she said she couldn't wait to hear my thoughts on the article.  Based on her enthusiasm, it was painful to know she had no clue about my predicament.  Now I had a guilty conscience.  Deceiving a well-meaning friend was not my idea of fun.  But a man has to have his Pride.  Scared to death she would discover I was a complete charlatan, the thought of disappointing this woman who had shown genuine interest in me was very upsetting.

Angelica gave me directions to her office near the Medical Center.  We planned to meet the next day for lunch.  I smiled grimly.  Good.  Let's get this over with. 

 

SHOWDOWN

I was very nervous as I walked to Angelica's office.  I was so clueless about this article, I didn't see how I was ever going to fool this perceptive woman.  What made me think I was going to get away with this?   Her training had taught her to read people.   I dreaded being forced to confess my abject stupidity.  This was going to be very difficult to fake.  Yes, I could say enough to prove I had read the article, but if she asked for insights, there was a good chance I would freeze up or say something nonsensical to trip me up.  

Keep in mind that I had never completely accepted my dismissal from graduate school.  If there is one raw nerve I am particularly sensitive about, it is the memory of being tossed from the Psychology program.  Under her close scrutiny, I was fearful Angelica would expose my shortcomings, thereby confirming the opinion yet again that my hated professor had been right all along.

More than likely Angelica would be too polite to reveal her growing awareness.  However, her disappointment was bound to show.  It crushed me to know that she had considered me her equal.  Pretty soon she would know the truth.  Consequently my hands were clammy and my breathing shallow as I entered her office.  Angelica could not wait to ask what I thought.  I replied with an old joke I had prepared as an evasion.  "I had several insights, but my mind works like lightning.  One brilliant flash and it is gone." 

To her credit, Angelica smiled at my small joke.   She was so gracious that my heart ached.  There was a part of me that suspected Angelica was checking me out.  If that was the case, I should have felt flattered.  But that is not what I felt.  Why couldn't I be smart enough to hang with her?  Life can be very cruel.

 

JUST WHEN YOU DON'T THINK IT CAN GET WORSE

My anxiety was instantly ratcheted up when Angelica announced we were going someplace fancy to eat in the Texas Medical Center.  This was not good.  I had expected something informal, maybe a coffee shop or modest restaurant.  Feeling a rising panic, I immediately spoke up.  "Angelica, I'm not dressed for elegant dining.  Maybe we should go somewhere else." 

No such luck.  Angelica said nonsense, I looked fine.  The next thing I knew she was driving us to some swanky Doctors Club in the Medical Center.  The restaurant was private membership only.  Angelica said this was where Houston's medical elite met for lunch.  She smiled and reported seeing the famous heart surgeons Denton Cooley and Michael DeBakey in here several times.

My dread worsened.  I knew Angelica was trying to extend a genuine courtesy.  It even crossed my mind that maybe she was trying to impress me too.  But why?  It was so utterly hopeless.  We could be friends, but I was not talented enough to be her boyfriend.   She had handed me a test and I had failed it.  Today this gracious lady would learn the truth.   Various forms of gallows humor ran through my brain.  We who are about to die salute you.  Maybe it was a good thing Angelica was a psychiatrist.  I had a better chance of being her patient than I did her boyfriend.  On the edge of a nervous breakdown, this could not end well. 

 

THE GENETIC CURSE STRIKES!

As we drove in Angelica's car, my ancient clothing anxiety was creeping in to add to my worries.  I recalled the day my classmates discovered I was wearing white socks with black socks on a long bus ride.  One particular jerk was inspired to start a Lord of the Flies-style chant that went like this: "White Socks, Dumb Ox".  

Getting the other boys to join in, my inadequacy was made quite apparent that day, so now I feared a nasty replay.  I don't remember the name of the restaurant nor do I remember where it was.  I had bigger things to worry about.   I tried to calm my fears by reminding myself that I had carefully chosen one of my favorite outfits.  I wore my best pair of dark slacks plus an attractive dark gray and white plaid shirt.  Thanks to my childhood memory, I even had the sense to add black socks.  For good measure, I wore black shoes and a black belt to match my dark pants.  I even took the time to comb my hair.  I looked okay.  I was presentable, so why should I worry?  But worry I did thanks to my premonition of doom.  Those who know me fairly well are aware of my strong belief in Fate.  Whenever events get way too weird, i.e. too far out of the ordinary, I get suspicious.  At the moment, my sense of fatalism was off the charts.  And sure enough, I was right. 

The moment we entered the reception area, the man at the desk took one look at me and frowned mightily.  He pointed to a sign.  Both of us realized for the first time this place required a coat and tie.  Uh oh.  My fears had been correct.  I was definitely under-dressed for a fancy place like this.  Why hadn't I anticipated this possibility?  I should have worn professional attire 'just in case'.  You can always take clothes off, but you can't put clothes on you don't have.  How hard would it have been to bring along a coat and tie in my back seat? 

The answer, of course, is that I am genetically cursed when it comes to common sense in clothing.  Whatever the reason, my problems were about to be magnified exponentially.  Already pathologically nervous about the Murray Bowen article, I sensed the jaws of the trap closing in.  There was no way out except to leave.  With that in mind, I voiced my reservations about continuing down this path.  Let's go somewhere else!  Angelica disagreed.  She said something along the lines of "It's no big deal, we are here, don't worry about it."  

Easy for her to say.  She looked great in her tasteful dark dress that accentuated her slender figure and long legs.  For that matter, as things stood, my outfit blended well with her exquisitely tailored professional attire.   Forgive my lack of modesty, but I too was tall and slender.  Physically speaking, I was a perfect match and we looked good together.  If I had possessed the sense to wear a dark jacket that day, who can say what doors might have opened? 

But it was not meant to be.  Due to my Curse, I had not even remotely anticipated this coat and tie curve ball.  Nor had Angelica.  She was just as surprised at the man's intransigence as I was.  Donning a Professional Face to see if it would help, in a flash, Angelica was transformed into the imposing "Dr. Frias".   Presenting herself as both doctor and club member, she stated I was her honored guest.  Was it really necessary to enforce the dress code?  Why not place us in a discrete corner where no one will notice?  I could see she was trying to use her prestige at the front desk to smooth the way.  No such luck.  Her professional demeanor wasn't good enough to bring this Guardian of the Dress Code to cooperate.  I stopped breathing when I realized he was going to insist this rule be followed. 

The man at the desk excused himself and went to summon the maître d'.  When the head guy showed up, he took one look at me and sniffed with contempt.  The maître d' was the type who takes his position way too seriously.  He insisted a coat and tie are MANDATORY at this establishment.  No Exceptions.  

At first this didn't bother me.  In fact it gave me a face-saving reason to suggest we leave.  This impending train wreck could still be avoided.  "Oh gosh, Angelica, no coat, no tie!  How stupid of me!  Gee, my mistake.  Oh well, let's cut our losses and go somewhere else.  Do you like Mexican food?"

Indeed, my suggestion almost worked.  Angelica had already taken one step towards the door when amazingly the maître d' spoke up.  He said, "Dr. Frias, please wait.  You and your guest don't have to leave.  I can help!"  

And with that, Angelica hesitated.  Uh oh.  That was the moment my worst fears were confirmed.   I turned pale white when the maître d' said they were prepared for these problems.  He pointed to a door, then INSISTED I go into the nearby closet and pick out a coat.  My mouth dropped open in horror. 

I noticed Angelica suppress a giggle at the look on my face.  She had no idea how badly I was panicking.  I said a silent prayer she would not realize just how upset I was.  I was already in a tizzy over this incomprehensible Bowen article only to have things grow more ominous.  Like a man walking to the gallows, I moved slowly to the walk-in coat room.  I closed the door behind me just to have some privacy.  Maybe I could regain some composure.  I was so tense I could scream. 

Alone in the closet, I viewed my choices.  I was stunned by what I saw.  This room contained twenty coats.  Every coat was plaid, a likely refugee from a golf course.   I quickly grasped the implications.  This place was a golf jacket graveyard.   This was the place where unwanted clothes were sent to die.  Noting that every coat was totally hideous, I had a vision.  I fantasized that at certain times, various doctors had seen a special new woman enter their life.  At some point, these women had taken one peek in the closet, gasped at his plaid sports coats and screamed bloody murder.  The women said to heck with marriage, these coats were serious deal breakers.  Clean out your closet or consider dating a blind woman. 

Only one problem.  No self-respecting resale shop would have these coats.  Nor would Good Will dream of taking them.  Even poor people have the sense to avoid these gaudy outfits.   So how to dispose of these outfits?   Doctors are smart guys.  By giving these coats to their private Medical Center dinner club, they could take a tax write-off for their generous donation.  Or perhaps the reason was nostalgia.  Maybe the doctors came to visit their old coats on days when their new wives weren't meeting them for lunch.

Every coat in the closet was Golf Course Plaid.  Burgundy plaid, green plaid, red plaid, orange plaid.  It was an Ocean of Plaid!  Clad in plaid, look real bad.  Wear plaid, go mad.  What the heck was I supposed to do?

There was a brief moment of hope when I discovered a coat that remotely matched my shirt.  False alarm.  It was too small.  How do I choose from these truly awful coats?  Then I discovered the selection process was actually very simple.  Out of twenty coats, there was only one in the entire closet that I could barely struggle into.  I'm no Terminator, but at 6' 1", 210, I had big shoulders and these were small jackets.  I smiled with satisfaction that perhaps Height and Medicine were negatively correlated.  Then I thought of Denton Cooley, 6' 4", starting forward for the UT Longhorn basketball team.  Hmm.  More likely the same runt had contributed the entire selection.

Grunting, squirming, and yes, cursing, I barely managed to get the sports coat around my shoulders.   The coat was very tight, but it was my only choice.  Now I looked like Randy, Ralphie's kid brother in "The Christmas Story" movie whose arms stuck out straight from too many undershirts plus a tight coat.   This was ridiculous.   I worried I might not be able to get back out of this coat without help.  It was tighter than a strait jacket.  Maybe I would have to tear the coat to shreds to regain my freedom.  I did not know if my conscience could bear the sacrifice.

Now I noticed the ties.  These ties were far too ugly, so I decided not to put one on.   Seriously, how hard would it be to have one simple black tie for situation like this?  Besides, I could barely move my arms.  How was I supposed to even tie the thing?  Easier to skip it and pray Mr. Fashion Police  would cut me some slack. 

Regrettably, there was a mirror in the closet.  As I stared at the combination of  the red, green and blue jacket over a dark gray plaid shirt, I was consumed with intense self-loathing.   I looked like a freak show.  But what could I do?  I swallowed hard and walked outside praying the maître d' had disappeared. 

No such luck.  The moment I opened the door, the maître d' spotted me from across the room and smiled.  Sensing the evil in his smirk, I had never hated someone so much in all my life.  I think the man was pleased by my disgust.    There is an old saying, 'a clerk is a jerk.'   Accurately pegging me as the kind of guy who would wait for him to turn his back, then do it my way, he had deliberately stuck around.   And why would he do this?  Because this guy took sinister pleasure in pushing me around.   I am way too easy to read.  My expression of undisguised contempt for this pompous man gave me away.  One look was all that was necessary to know I don't like to follow dumb rules. 

Even though I had said nothing, no doubt the maître d' knew I had a bad attitude.  Like a cop who has pulled some hapless guy over for speeding, the maître d' made me stand for inspection.  He sneered with intense satisfaction at his power.   When the maître d' discovered I wasn't wearing a tie, the pleasure on his face was obvious .  He ordered the man at the front desk to go back in the closet and pick out a tie.  Meanwhile he kept me under his gaze lest I make an escape.  He did not want to miss one precious moment of my growing discomfort. 

Sending the assistant to the closet was yet another move I had not anticipated. I had assumed if I were caught, I would be sent back to make the choice of tie myself.  No such luck.   It occurred to me the assistant could care less.  Sure enough, I was right.  The man was in and out in 20 seconds.  He returned with the first tie that caught his eye.  And why did it catch his eye?   Yes, you guessed it.  He saw it first because it was the UGLIEST TIE in the closet!!  The tie was a purple paisley print with amoeba-like splotches.  I was irate.  This has gone too far!  I should have looked at Angelica and said forget it. 

"Gosh, Angelica, I think I am suffering from transient situational adjustment reaction.  The only known cure is cheese enchiladas.  Let's vamonos."

But I did not have the guts or the sense to stand up for myself.  Cursed human that I am, I have been trained to be polite in awkward situations.   And so under the watchful eye of the Maître d' and dutiful Igor, I tried to put on the tie.  

This led to the next humiliation.  My coat was so tight I could not tie the tie on my own.   I did not want to take the coat off because it was such an effort, so Angelica offered to tie it for me.  No way I was going to let that happen.   Unwilling to accept yet another blow to my dignity, I asked Angelica to help me get the coat off instead.   With her watching, I fumbled with the tie.  I was so nervous it took three tries to get the length right.   When Angelica offered to help me get the coat back on, this time I accepted.  Her expression was priceless.  Although I could see she was sympathetic, at the same time she was forced to use every ounce of self-control to keep from bursting out in hysterical laughter. 

Meanwhile the Maître d' stood there with crossed arms at the spectacle.  He was enjoying this.  He made me stand for inspection again and actually had the nerve to straighten my tie.  I would have punched him, but my arms didn't move. 

Okay, now picture this.  I was wearing a very tight red-green- blue plaid coat over a gray plaid shirt combined with a purple paisley tie covered with amoeba-like splotches.  Incomprehensibly, the maître d' approved this rainbow attire as suitable for his dining room.  Thanks to him, I was downright frightening.  Nevertheless, just as long as I had on a coat and tie, that was all that mattered.

The time had come time to send the poor beast into the dining room.   Ordinarily I admire anyone brave enough to attempt a Fashion Risk, but even I knew this had gone too far.   Why I cooperated is a question for which I have no answer.  The maître d' summoned a waiter and directed him to escort us to our seats.  I grimly noticed he wasn't willing to be seen anywhere near me from this point on.  I also noticed Angelica wasn't smiling any more.  At this point, she was just as upset at the Maître d' as I was.   But she said nothing, so I followed.

As I entered the dining area, I asked myself if maybe this was a bad dream.  Maybe I could wake up from this and everything would be okay.  Nope, tough luck, this is Reality.  This was really happening to me and there was no escape.

The cream of Houston's medical society and their guests were there to witness my public Walk of Shame.  I was Night of the Living Dead, a walking, lurching zombie nightmare.   I made Freddy Krueger look handsome.   Not surprisingly, I was hypersensitive to any signs of disapproval.  It did not take long.   The moment I entered the dining room, six women to my right stopped eating and looked up in astonishment.  From another direction I saw a lady in a corner gasp.  She put her fork down and poked her companion's side to direct his gaze at me.  Her companion dropped his jaw and shook his head in disgust.  Mind you, this was a doctor hardened by a career full of blood and guts.  Judging by his pained expression, nothing he had ever seen matched the horror that was me. 

Two people had not noticed me.  As they rose from their table to leave, they spotted me and recoiled in terror.  They quickly sat back down rather than be forced to come near me.  Whatever I had, they didn't want to catch it.  I felt like Carrie at the Senior Prom with pig blood over me.  Seriously, this moment was so bizarre even the twisted mind of Stephen King could not have imagined this. 

I felt the stir in the room and heard the muffled whispers.  The entire room went silent as people stared wide-eyed.   Seeing people crane their necks to get a better view of the modern day Quasimodo parading down the aisle.  I looked around for Cooley and DeBakey.  Judging by the tension in the room, someone might have a heart attack.  The way my heart was pounding, I too was at risk.  

Thanks to me, every single person had stopped eating.  Having caused the entire room to lose their appetite, the disgust was so palpable I was full of despair.   By the time we reached our table, I was so embarrassed I could not force myself to sit down.   Filled with bitterness, I could not take it anymore.   I turned to Angelica and said, "I don't enjoy people staring at me.  Do you mind if we go?"

Angelica quietly nodded and we turned around.   I was hoping to take the emergency exit, but no such luck.  Now I had to face the same ordeal all over again.  People covered their faces to hide their expressions as I walked by.  Let's face it, the whole room was terrified.  Dave Barry was right.  Thanks to my Golf clothes, I was so repulsive I could have ruled the Rain Forest.

We dined at a nearby Black Eyed Pea where I could eat without people staring.  So what happened to my much-dreaded conversation with Angelica?   There is a gruesome Arabic saying that the easiest way to forget about the loss of a finger is to lose one's hand.  In other words, one way to solve a problem is to find another problem that is much worse.   My catastrophic fears about the Murray Bowen article were nothing compared to the ordeal of the Ugly Golf Clothing.  

Handed the excuse needed to spare me, there was no further embarrassment.   I simply told Angelica how angry I felt from being forced to wear this ridiculous outfit in front of all those important people.  Adding I felt too miserable for serious conversation, Angelica said she understood.   I hate to say it, but Angelica had suffered too.  Forced to accompany Quasimodo, she too had felt the sharp disapproval of the offended guests.   Unlike me, she would have to face these people again someday.   Feeling equally somber, we got through lunch with stretches of silence and lukewarm small talk.

AFTERMATH

They always say be careful what you ask for.   I had asked for some way to conceal my ignorance and look what happened.  As expected, I never saw Angelica again.  Who can blame her?   She was just as embarrassed by the spectacle as I was. 

I was bitter about the dining room experience.  What had been accomplished?  What was the purpose of that coat and tie charade?   If it was decorum the Maître d' was seeking, he had badly missed the point.  It was more important to assert his petty authority than do his job and show respect to Angelica. 

I suppose by now my ever-loyal Readers are used to a little exaggeration in my various stories.  Not this time.  Strangely enough, this story is completely true.   This experience was so painful I did not need to embellish.

Plagued by the memory of those rude stares, I suffered through serious depression for a week.  Then one day I told my story to a group of dance friends at the studio.  They laughed so hard they had to be helped up off the floor.  I was embarrassed of course, but their laughter actually did cheer me up in an odd sort of way.  Laughter really is the best therapy, even if it is at my own expense.

My Dining Room predicament had an amusing twist to it.  That year at our annual SSQQ Halloween Party, my buddy Ken Schmetter came to the party in a garish outfit very similar to my Golf Clothes Ordeal.   Pairing a plaid sports coat with an ugly tie and ugly shirt, Ken took things one tasteless step further by adding plaid golf pants for good measure.  Needless to say, everything clashed. 

As if that wasn't bad enough, Ken twisted the needle.  Whenever anyone flinched, Ken pointed to his 'Rick Archer' name tag in bold letters, then proceeded to share the story of my humiliation.  Early in the party when people were still sober enough to feel the pain, Ken milked his wicked practical joke for all it was worth.

Fortunately I got some revenge.  Later in the night I saw Ken standing alone watching the crowded dance floor.  Following a hunch, I went up to Ken and asked how his evening had gone.   "So Ken," I asked, "how did your little stunt work out?  What is like to be me for a night?" 

Ken had the nerve to complain that none of the women at the party would dance with him.  They all said he looked so ugly that no woman wanted to be seen with him.  I replied it served him right.  This was the night Ken ruled the Rain Forest.  In the future, try not to wear something quite so scary to the Halloween Party.

The Genetic Curse

Written by Rick Archer in 1998
Last update: 2007

Humorist and occasional fashion consultant Dave Barry once wrote a fascinating article on ugly clothes.  One of his key paragraphs is reprinted here.

"Men are genetically programmed to select ugly clothing.

This phenomenon dates back millions of years. Primitive tribal men responsible for defending their territory would deck themselves out in face paint, animal heads and nose bones. This allowed them to look really hideous and scare off threatening enemy tribes. 

If prehistoric tribal warriors had somehow gotten hold of modern golf clothing, they would surely have ruled the rain forest."

Mr. Barry postulated that men who were drawn to hideous clothing were more likely to survive than men with good taste in clothing.  Ugly clothes guaranteed that bad guys and predators would take one look, then turn to flee in terror.

Mr. Barry also said possession of modern golf clothing during the Caveman Era would have guaranteed certain control of the Rain Forest. 

Not surprisingly, my lack of social polish occasionally got me into trouble with my more sophisticated classmates.  The area of clothing in particular was a real sore spot.  Saint John's did its best to disguise the wealthy students from the middle class students by requiring us all to wear student uniforms. 

However, even though we all wore the same uniform, the difference in the quality of what I wore and what everyone else wore was obvious.  This fact that was not lost on me nor was it lost on my classmates.  They knew I was from a disadvantaged home. 

I was teased once in a while about my clothes, but usually it was good-natured enough that I was able to maintain my dignity. 

That is, of course, until the fateful 1963 bus trip to Oklahoma in the Ninth grade.  That was the day when I was finally put in my place once and for all.

The football team was taking a 400 mile bus trip to Oklahoma City to play Casady, one of our biggest rivals.  I was 13 at the time.  Unfortunately I wasn't a football player.  I was the statistician for the football team.  Although I very much wanted to play football and certainly had the size for it,  I was not allowed to play. 

The problem was that I was blind in my left eye.  I had cut the eye with a knife when I was 6.  With no vision at all in my left eye, the coaches feared that I might be blind-sided and badly hurt.  I accepted their decision without question.  They had let me play in the Eighth grade.  On one play in particular, some kid hit me from my blindside and knocked me out.  I never again doubted their wisdom.

Since I still wanted to contribute, I offered to keep track of the football statistics.  Coach Lee was glad to accept.  I held this job for all four years in high school.   One of the nice perks of my job was the chance to accompany the football team to games played in other cities. 

On that fateful day, I was the last person to get on the bus for long trip to Casady.  Everyone else was already seated and pumped up. They were raring to go!

As I began my solitary stroll down the aisle, I was wearing black pants, black shoes, and WHITE SOCKS!!   

Unfortunately no one had ever bothered to explain to me the basic facts of color coordination.

Gary Glesby (aka the biggest mouth in school) spotted me as I walked down the aisle in search of an empty seat.  Roaring with derisive laughter, he pointed out my fashion mistake to every boy on the bus.  On the spot, Gary made up a rhyme for everyone... "White Socks, Dumb Ox!"   Since the other boys were already jacked up with enthusiasm, on cue the whole pack picked up the chant and jeered as one. 

I was subject of extreme ridicule for at five unbearable minutes before something else came up to divert their attention.

To make matters worse, Gary dedicated the remainder of the trip to my public humiliation.  Any time the conversation lagged, Gary would return to me for inspiration. It was the longest trip of my life.  The teasing and humiliation of Mr. White Socks continued periodically all the way for 9 hours during the 400 mile trip.  Teenage boys can be pretty rough sometimes.  As my gut knotted up, the trip felt like a passage from Lord of the Flies, the book we were reading at the time... "Kill the pig, Cut her throat, Spill her blood, Bash her in!"

Yes, I sat in the back, but the boys had a good memory and knew where to find me.  For lack of anything better to do, Gary pointed out my fashion faux pas to everyone and laughed raucously. 

The rhythmic chanting of "White Socks, Dumb Ox" wasn't exactly "Kill the Pig", but it still irritated the bejeesus out of me.  I told them to knock it off, so they did.  But the damage was done.  I fumed all the way to Oklahoma.

Thank God my roommate in the hotel that evening loaned me an extra pair of black socks to return home in.  But the damage was done.  I didn't have much self-esteem to begin with and this event left me bitter and alone.

Little did I imagine that someday it could get worse.  But one day actually did.

Well, what would you do in this situation?  Squirm like a fish?  Dodge like a mongoose?  Slither away like a snake? 

My self-protective instincts screamed at me to say something like "Um, Angelica, that's very kind, but no thank you.  My gut is warning me this is definitely not a good idea!!!" 

But did I say that?   Of course not.  I got myself into this.  Now I better figure out a way to extricate myself with dignity.  With a sense of incredible misgivings, I politely accepted her invitation. 

At this point other students began to show up.  That where the conversation rested.  As I finished straightening out the studio, I tried to reassure myself.  I tried to analyze why was I so worried.  What's the risk here?  Like I said, I kept reminding myself that I can read.  Why did I feel so intimidated?
 

Murray Bowen's entire article read like that.  I found it utterly and completely incomprehensible.

Sometimes when I read something for a while, I pick up a rhythm and things start to make sense.  No such luck.  As I read the article during the night, I became increasing aware that the reading wasn't getting any easier.  I was completely unable to decipher the text.  The paper had obviously been written for a professional audience.  It was directed at the upper strata of Angelica's profession.

This treatise constantly used technical terms that only the people trained in the field would be able to comprehend.  No matter how many times I thumbed through my dictionary, I was fighting a losing battle against a technical vocabulary that was foreign to me.  Maybe if I had stayed in the "Biz" and stayed familiar with the jargon I might have had more success, but now I felt thoroughly whipped.   I had no choice but to admit this stuff was over my head.

This was a thoroughly humbling experience.  I had graduated with honors at Saint John's, the finest academic high school in Houston.  I had graduated with honors at Johns Hopkins, an elite Eastern college on par with Rice University here in Houston. 

Bravely I continued reading, but the further I got the more I realized the hopelessness of my plight.  I panicked and flipped the pages looking for an easy part.  No luck.  It was all Greek to me.  

One question that repeated like a broken record in my mind was to wonder what had prompted Angelica to think I could comprehend this material.  What on earth had made her believe I could handle this stuff?  

It was clear to me that despite all my education, I was totally out of my league.  How was I ever going to face "Doctor Frias" and discuss this paper intelligently?  

Suddenly a moment of terrible realization swept over me.  Thoughts of the Peter Principle came rushing through my psyche.  The Peter Principle is the concept that, in any organization where promotion is based on achievement, success, and merit, the organization's members will continually be promoted until one day they are promoted one fateful step beyond their level of ability. At that moment, they suddenly realize they are completely overwhelmed in their new spot... but it is too late to do anything about it.  The principle is commonly phrased, "Employees tend to rise to their level of incompetence."

Angelica had unwittingly "promoted" me to my level of incompetence.

As I sensed the true depths of the trouble I was in, nausea swept through my body.   I was angry at my helplessness.   I was angry at my immaturity.  I was 38 years old, but I had behaved like a silly boy.  I had tried too hard to impress a beautiful woman.  Now look what I had gotten myself into.  I was now facing the likelihood of some acute embarrassment in the presence of the elegant Dr. Frias.

So I made a coward's decision.  I decided I would simply try to grasp enough to BS my way through lunch.  I didn't see any other way out.  My plan was to memorize some of those catch phrases, figure out what they meant, and use them here and there.  Then I would fall back on the ancient art of posing one question after another.

With any luck at all, maybe I could change the subject to something closer to my point on the Bell Curve like dancing, local sports or the latest music videos on MTV. 

So I began to look for important passages to underline.  Even this wasn't easy.  I didn't know where the important ideas were hidden in the first place!   So I simply underlined the few passages I could understand.  

Two days later I finished slogging through the article with great difficulty.  The paper may have been just 60 pages long, but at my snail's pace, a thousand page copy of Atlas Shrugged would have been a faster read.  My fingers were practically bleeding from looking up one word after another in the dictionary.  I estimate I looked up more words in two days than I had in my entire college career. 

Now I just wanted to get this over with.  I had been sick in my stomach now for the past three days.  I had to get this burden off my back or go crazy.

I decided I understood enough to fake my way through lunch.  So I called Angelica at her office to report in.  She greeted me with warmth and said she was very pleased to hear I had read the article.  I groaned inwardly at the encouragement in her voice.  It felt like daggers when she said she couldn't wait to hear my thoughts on the article.  It also pained me that she seemed to have no clue as to my predicament. 

On the one hand I was sick with a guilty conscience.  Deceiving a well-meaning friend was not my idea of fun.  But I was also absolutely scared to death she would discover what a complete charlatan I was.  The thought of disappointing her stung terribly.  

Angelica gave me directions to her office near the Medical Center.  We planned to meet the next day for lunch. 

I smiled grimly.  Good.  The execution is tomorrow.  Let's get this goddamn circus over with.

 

The next day as I walked to Angelica's office near the Medical Center, I was very nervous.  I was well aware I was standing on shaky ground.  I could say enough to prove I had read the article, but if she asked for insights, there was a good chance I would either freeze up or I would say something that would trip me up.  Then I would be forced to confess my abject stupidity.

I wanted to save face so badly, but I didn't know how I was going to pull it off.  I was so clueless about this article, I didn't see how I was going to fool an intelligent woman like Dr. Frias.  Her entire training had taught her to read people.  What made me think I was going to be able to fool her? 

My hands were clammy with sweat as I entered her office.  She immediately asked what I thought.  I made a small joke about the article, something like "At first I was indecisive about what it meant, now I'm not sure".  Then I smiled.  I wasn't going to pretend I was a genius.  All I wanted to do was convince her I understood it.

To her credit, Angelica smiled at my small joke.  She was so gracious.  My heart ached.  Why couldn't I be smart enough to hang with her?

Just as we left her office, my anxiety was instantly ratcheted up when Angelica announced we were going to someplace fancy to eat. 

Oh no.  I had expected something like a coffee shop or a simple restaurant.  I immediately spoke up.  "Angelica, I'm not dressed for elegant dining.  Maybe we should go somewhere else?" 

No such luck.  Angelica said nonsense, I looked fine.  The next thing I knew she was driving us to the swankiest doctors-only club in the entire Medical Center.  The restaurant was part of a private membership club.  Angelica said this was where Houston's medical elite met for lunch.  She smiled and said she had seen the famous heart surgeons Cooley and DeBakey in here several times.

My dread worsened.  I knew Angelica was trying to pay me some sort of high honor.  It even crossed my mind that maybe she was trying to impress me too.  But why? 

No matter.  Various forms of gallows humor ran through my brain.  We who are about to die salute you.  It occurred to me maybe it was a good thing Angelica was a psychiatrist.  I was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.  

This could not possibly end well. 

Under the watchful eye of the maître d' and his dutiful Igor, I tried to put on the tie.  Now came the next humiliation - I couldn't tie the tie.

I could barely move my hands because the coat was too tight.  I didn't want to take the coat off because it was such an effort, but finally I had no choice.  I asked Angelica to help me get the coat off.  As nervous as I was, naturally it took me three tries to get the length right. 

As I struggled to the coat back on, I could see Angelica using every ounce of her professional self-control to keep from bursting out in hysterical laughter.  The maître d' just stood there in quiet amusement.  He was enjoying this. 

Now he made me stand still for inspection.  He actually had the nerve to straighten my tie.  As if that's going to help. 

I was now wearing a very tight red-green plaid coat over a gray plaid shirt combined with a dark blue tie covered with amoeba splotches.