by Rob Taylor
As a rule, words at the office are few at 6:00 a.m. on Monday mornings. We stand in line in the break room, waiting to fill our coffee cups, amazed that anything percolates before sunrise. Soon, the meetings will begin, or if there are none – if all the important people are vacationing to places none of the rest of us can afford – we will, no doubt, within the hour find ourselves three spreadsheets to the wind. I utter ‘good morning’ to coworkers when provoked and reciprocate plastic smiles. Typical Monday.
At least it is until the human resources gal chimes in. “Nice pants,” she says, grinning, pointing at my navy pinstripes.
Now I’m worried.
Generally speaking, in the dark polyester world of men’s apparel, there is a mano-a-mano code of silence … unless something is amiss, like the guy who tucks sweaters inside his pants. If we don’t have time to punish the offender by taping him to the flagpole or giving him a wedgie, verbal abuse is in order. That’s when a man hears “Is the circus in town?” or, perhaps, “Nice pants.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, trying to sound unrattled.
She finds the cream and sugar, then leaves.
Second in line now, the self-examination begins in earnest. Zipper: check. No clinging fabric softener sheets. Now I look for stains – down the legs, hips, ankles. The exact moment that I crank my head around and make eye contact with my rear end – when I’m certain that no one else is paying attention – my boss materializes from nowhere.
“Everything okay?” he says, visibly amused.
I redirect quickly – mentioning the weather, inquiring about his weekend golf outing, hoping he’ll forget. I can see that he won’t. He eyeballs me with a look of knowing. I know that he knows I was checking out my nether regions. I can probably kiss the idea of future promotions goodbye. Lovely.
I’m fully awake now, unnaturally stirred, even before my first sip of coffee. “Nice pants,” I mumble under my breath, coffee now in hand, as I make the trek back to my office. This time, the words trigger last night’s dream. I rarely remember dreams and am always surprised when they surface.
I sat in a chair, sporting a provocative leisure suit — all white, bellbottoms, a button-down flower shirt from Mr. Brady’s wardrobe, nipple-length collar, white shoes. I looked like a Pat Boone regurgitation, but in the dream fashion was the last thing on my mind. I didn’t care.

I remember a clock ticking loudly, too loudly, causing me squirm. I searched desperately for the chair’s sweet spot, trying not to call attention to myself, trying not to give myself a wedgie on national television.

Sitting across from me, mere inches from my nose, Nipsey Russell studied me with twinkling eyes.
“Stonehenge,” he said, then repeated it, louder than before, with a nod, with urgency.

I stared blankly, scanning his face for a clue that wasn’t there. The clock ticked louder. My mind raced. Stonehenge. Stonehenge. What did it mean? “Uh … the U.K., rocks, circles, religious ceremonies, wonders of the world …” I said, grasping.

Flustered, Nipsey abandoned me for 3 precious seconds, then nearly came unglued. “Women’s fashion,” he shrieked, shaking his hands ecstatically.

Suddenly, it clicked.

“Things a man will never understand!” I shouted.

Chaos. A bell dinged repeatedly. The clock stopped. We jumped up and down. Dick Clark shook our hands vigorously as the “$25,000 Pyramid” theme song filled our ears. Calgon took us away to a commercial break.
Stupid dream. I won’t be sharing that one with my boss, just in case (in the unlikely event) there’s still a remote chance for promotion.
Not an hour later, overheard in the hallway: “Nice top.” This time it’s a woman-to-woman compliment. No confusion there. It’s literal. They gush about her shirt for a full 60 seconds.
The thought that no one says “nice bottom” crosses my mind. Funny. Such flattery would be less ambiguous than “nice pants” in my world.
I glance at the framed “Life is like a box of chocolates …” poster on my wall and feel the sarcasm bubbling up. With apologies to Forrest Gump and everything that is decent in this world, sometimes, life is like a box of grenades … especially when it comes to men’s fashion.