Frugal Fashion

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

My husband’s frugal fashion sense can be described as Old Navy couture. About three times each decade he will seek out the nearest Old Navy and spend about 22 minutes to replenish his wardrobe by digging through the shirts that are on sale, and buying about 15 of them. Upon returning home from his shopping spree, he rotates the crisp and clean new shirts into his supply of worn and frayed shirts found in his chest of drawers or his small but functional closet.

The old shirts’ destinies are determined by some unknown system that he devised and has refined over the years. Some shirts remain in the drawer rotating up to the top of the pile. Some shirts go to Goodwill. Some shirts go to the rag box. One or two of his most favorite shirts earn the highest honor that he can bestow upon a clothing item, they become his uniform.

My husband voluntarily wears what he calls “uniforms.” Growing up I had to wear uniforms in shades of blue and grey for 12 long years, but his uniforms are not nearly as cute as the ubiquitous catholic school girl ensemble I donned 180 days a year.

Each season he adopts a favorite outfit. These get-ups are dictated by comfort more than style. Newness and cleanliness don’t play a role in their selection. In fact, the more worn-out or stained a shirt, the more likely it will become his go to clothing item. No bright colors for him. Only faded and bleach blotched clothes will do.

The only clothes he seems to accept into his rotation of work vs. going-out vs. leisurewear come from his favorite box clothing store, or from the ladies with whom he works. Many years ago, these lovely ladies pitched-in and bought him his first pair of Crocs for a Christmas gift. Because it was winter, they were fur lined and black. He fell in love instantly.

Since then, he has purchased or been gifted at least five pairs of Crocs. All are the same style. You know, the ones that look like plastic clogs with holes and a strap across the back. He does vary them a bit by getting furless ones for warm weather. He even purchased a pair that were a dark khaki brown color which was a big departure from the basic black. I mean black does go with everything, but khaki is also a neutral, so he was safe.

When I say: He can wear them with anything, please don’t take that as me giving him permission or support in this footwear selection.

Nothing makes me more agitated then when he asks me out on a date and then gets “dressed-up” in one of his Old Navy plaid button downs made from a magic material that never needs to be ironed pairing it with either Old Navy khaki pants, newish Levi jeans, or if its warm out, a pair of khaki cargo shorts (not too long thank you very much).

Of course, he finishes off the outfit with a his “good” Crocs. Seriously.  He often tries to slip out of the house without me noticing what is on his feet. Inevitably, I give him “the look.” Upon seeing my famous glare that speaks volumes about what I am feeling at that moment, he drops his head with a sigh, pouts and pleads his case. His case is always but they’re comfortable. About half the time he relents and changes his shoes the other half I give up and let him keep the on damn man mules.

Don't these look comfy?

Women have been limping through life wearing nothing but uncomfortable shoes for centuries and this man can’t even put on a pair of loafers to take his wife for dinner?

The ladies at work bought him a very nice wool, olive green (his favorite color) sweater. He wore this sweater for years. He wore it for so long and so often that it became frayed and misshapen. It pilled and holes started to appear in several spots. Despite its sad appearance, he wore it daily with an equally sad pair of Levi’s and his black Crocs. It became one of his first uniforms.

I attempted several times to buy him a sweater that was similar to replace this raggedy one. He returned them all, or they got lost in the abyss of his closet where all the other shirts and pants I bought him ended up after he half-heartedly accepted them before stuffing them away. He wore this sweater so often that when I finally found a sweater that he accepted as a replacement, the ladies at work commented on how happy they were that he was finally wearing something different. 

They never bought him clothes again.

This Spring/Summer has seen two uniforms. He rotates between a red faded t-shirt he acquired for free by volunteering for a therapeutic horseback riding agency and a pair of tan khaki cargos that are ripped and frayed so much at the hem that his boxers peek out. He mocks boys who show their boxers by wearing low slung pants, but apparently seeing his underwear from the bottom is acceptable.

His second uniform is an Old Navy t-shirt he bought on sale for three dollars that has a clock face where all the numbers read 5. The assumption that it is always 5 o’clock somewhere helps him justify a Bud Light at noon a Saturday. This cocktail hour shirt is dark grey. He pairs it with dark brown frayed cargo shorts. His boxers show from these as well. He often tops of his uniforms with a tan Pittsburgh Penguins ball cap that has rust stains bleeding down from the button at the crown. Of course, his feet sport Crocs.

Recently, he had a serious fall while wearing his beloved Crocs. When entering the door to the kitchen of his camper, his Crocs, which are bulky and loose fitting, snagged the metal door frame and sent him plummeting to the ground. He could not stop his fall with his hands as they were holding a platter of freshly grilled steaks and veggies. Though he cut open his leg pretty badly, he attended to his wound only after meeting the five second rule (those were good steaks). 

I imagine he ate his dinner while holding on a compress of toilet paper onto his badly bleeding wound. I was not there, but I know how he rolls.

Because of this injury, he finally branched out and purchase himself a pair of brown leather Teva sandals that he is starting to wear more often in the name of safety more so than fashion. He still stares longingly and lovingly at his Crocs which he stores in various spots throughout the house and yard for easy access. Everything comes to a halt in our house when they become misplaced. It is a true emergency.

Though I would love to see him in clothes that compliment his good looks a bit more, I am resigned to the fact that we do not live in a fashion forward mecca. In fact, outside of a few college campuses and Millennial infested spots in Pittsburgh, most folks in Western PA aren’t particularly concerned about keeping up with the latest trends.

The typical Western PA resident wears shorts and t-shirts with a pair of flip flops when the temperature rises above 32 degrees. On colder days, a hoody is added for warmth. For special occasions, a pair of Levi’s or Wrangler jeans with boots snazz-up the t-shirt.

I have no idea who these people are or if their neighbors cook meth

For high profile situations, like being interviewed on WTAE after your neighbor was arrested for cooking meth, folks don their most valuable clothing item, their genuine Steelers' jersey. Nobody questions this decision. It’s considered haute couture.

Truth be told, I am not much of a fashionista myself. I admire beautiful clothes and how they look on the Old Navy mannequins. When I try them on, I’m always disappointed with how they cling in the wrong spot and accentuate the parts I want to camouflage. My posture is not as good as that fiberglass doll’s nor are my legs long enough to get the same draping.

The reality is that my formative years of developing a sense of fashion were dampened by that navy-blue skirt and vest ensemble I sported daily. Maybe I need to adopt an adult uniform just like my hubby.

I like that my husband does not feel the need to dress-up. I like that he that he can still fit into clothes from twenty years ago. I like to give him a hard time, but I wouldn’t change him for the world (I’ve tried. He just returns the clothes).