Purging yourself of those post-Christmas doldrums.

Wow...okay...I'm back. Good to be back.

How would you describe what's been going on in your world for the past week? I've been rattling my oxidizing grey matter to describe the sequence of events which follows Christmas, and the best description is what I'll call the "Alfredo Analogy."

Have you ever dined on a nice seafood fettuccine smothered in a succulent cream sauce? As is common with most American restaurants, we're served enough to fill Kenny Chesney's hat, so naturally we box it up and take it home in anticipation of later microwavable awesomeness.

So, yeah, that's how I'd describe the lead-up to Christmas—piping hot Fettuccine Alfredo.

We crack the lid on our December 26 pasta to discover a petrified, softball-sized rubber band noodle ball. And regardless of what method we employ to heat it back to its original form, it's forever assumed the identity of its own weaker, less attractive twin.

Sure, all the ingredients are present; it's just that all molecular activity has halted and your fabulous dish from the previous evening has now permanently morphed into Fettuccine Afraido.

Christmas has ended.

The day after Christmas dawns like those countless mornings when we've awoken in a strange place without a toothbrush. Our head pounds as we stagger to button the now wrinkled shirt we wore to the club last night. At length, everything is finally accounted for except our dignity...and a sock. We flee into the chill of another shameful morning.

Actually, that's never happened to me. I've just dated women who've had lots of those experiences.

I'm obviously being too dramatic here, but let's face it—the first few days following Christmas are a bit of a letdown. The tree still stands, the cookies and candy and fudge still line our counters, but it all looks just a little warmed over.

Today, rather than wallowing in my sluggishness, I asked my eleven-year-old daughter if she'd like to go to the mall—just the two of us—to exchange and return some gifts she'd received.

"Dad, do you even have to ask?" Apparently I hadn't needed to ask.

"Why do you love the mall so much?" I felt pangs of regret as the words spewed out. "All it is is a whole bunch of overpriced crap."

"It is not crap. The mall is amazing. Are you saying my stuff is crap, Dad?"

"No. I just think there are a lot of punks who cruise around looking for trouble because they're bored." I knew this to be gospel as I was one of those punks thirty-five years ago. Take away those saggy pants and peel on some wedgie-inducing moose knuckle flair legs and we're one in the same teen tool.

Here's where things got sort of weird.

I've worked in the fashion industry for the past twenty years, and even though I haven't kept aggressively in touch with the latest clothing trends for young women, it's kind of soaked into my DNA, anyway.

Thirty minutes following our mall discussion, I found myself seated on a bench in a store called Delia's, consulting with my daughter about how best to assemble a sassy outfit with her seventy-five-dollar gift card. Parents lined the long seating area, assessing their daughters as they poked their heads out the dressing cubicle doors.

Actually, using the term "parents" implies that dads were in attendence. They were not. It was a bunch of moms and...me.

And I could tell they didn't know quite what to make of me, especially when my daughter opened the door, I looked at her in some jeans and a top, and proclaimed, "Oh, that is so cute."

Heads turned, but I'm not sure if they were looking at my daughter or the dude who had just channeled Tyra Banks.

I felt the hot pinkness of embarrassment seep into my cheeks and armpits. Oh, my God. Did I just say that? I've always tried to stick to androgynous words like "cool" and "nice." "Cute" had yet to breach the levee.

But it was too late.

I made sure every mom in that dressing area got a glimpse of my masculine three-day beard growth as I knocked over three camisoles on my way out.

Boom. Post Christmas doldrums—gone.

Fashion and the Winter Olympiad

I work in the fashion industry. However, I'm not a role model, nor a maven of fashion; my fabric of choice is elastic; my shoe of choice is the Converse Arch-Be-Gone (also known as the Chuck Taylor).

Nevertheless, I keep a watchful eye on clothing trends and styles, and I couldn't help but notice two fashion worlds colliding this week, as the the 21st Winter Olympiad opened in Vancouver, BC and New York Fashion Week burst onto the scene in the Big Apple.

I'll leave the New York stuff to the experts, but I do want to share a few nuggets of observation regarding the styles worn by the world's snow and ice athletes 140 miles to the north of my home here in Seattle. I've broken these outfits down to the following categories:

1) The skiers and lugers (Actually, they're called "sliders," not "lugers," probably because "lugers" sounds a little too much like "losers."). These people look the coolest of all, with brightly colored, superhero, super tight suits and sleek, streamline helmets. I would totally dress like this if I were twenty pounds lighter and buff, except I'd probably wear some baggy shorts to hide my "Baryshnikov."

2) The speed skaters. Also very cool looking, except they wear snug, one-piece outfits, with a head covering that makes them look like baby harp seals with forty-inch thighs.

3) The curlers. I love these people because they look like they just fixed your copy machine and didn't change before the competition. I could have sworn I saw a Hostess Berry Pie sticking out of a guy's Dockers' pocket as he bent over, sweeping. I'm completely behind athletes who represent "Herb Everyman," and I could just picture one of them walking over to me at work, cell phone clipped to his belt, saying, "Mornin', the name's Bob. I went ahead and re-stocked your toner and fuser oil. If you need anything else, call me and I'll get back to you as soon as possible, even if I happen to be curlin'."

4) The snowboarders. These are the dudes, the guys and girls who care much more about the look than any type of aerodynamic advantage. They wear jeans. Jeans in the snow. Remember what it was like when you wore jeans to play in the snow for an afternoon? You'd finally burst through your front door, shivering uncontrollably because your pants were wet, frozen and crusty. Your mom would gaze at you, shaking her head. "I told you to wear your snow pants. Now let's get you into a hot bathtub."

5) The figure skaters. Let's just say this is what happens when someone has a Bedazzler and too much time on his hands.

There are other fashion realms of the winter athlete, I'm sure, but I think I've touched upon the main categories. And since it's not practical for someone like me, who spends the day in a cubicle, to wear any of the above clothing choices, I've decided to pursue either a Bruce Jenner or Dorothy Hamill hair style. No difference, really.

Tell her to change her clothes before she leaves

I was in the restroom when Lauryn called me. It would have been bad form to pick up my phone in the stall, and I wasn't anxious to expose the cellular unit to E-Coli. It was usually smeared with my facial oil, anyway, so I didn't want to add to the bacterial casserole.
I left the restroom, ducked into a conference room and called her back. "Dad, tell mom to change her clothes. She listens to you."
Terri was on her way to a doctor's appointment. "Dad, the doctors and nurses are going to be really embarrassed to see her in her brown sweater with huge buttons," Lauryn added. "She looks super ugly."
This is when I launched into my "Mike Brady" mode. "Well, Lauryn, people in our family are allowed to dress any way they want, including you." I thought this tack had a good chance of getting her to give up the fight.
"Yeah, but I always wear really pretty things."
"That's true," I replied, "but everyone has their own taste in how they like to look."
"Just tell her to change her sweater, then. She can leave her pants on." That was big of her.
"Lauryn, I have to go back to work. Just let it go."
"Okay, but you have a really unattractive wife going out in public."
It's great to have such an accepting daughter.