Last week, I was sitting at my desk at work, minding my own business, when the sudden flexing of my bulbous, Ferrigno-esque forearm ripped out the sleeve of my gold shirt.

I jest, of course. Have you seen my arms? They're nothing you'd call muscular, unless you came from a planet where the appendages of the populace were made from wooden dowels. But all I did was bend at the elbow, and the shirt tore cleanly down the iron crease. Nobody seemed to notice, but I still thanked any and every entity listening that it wasn't my pants.

This same shirt, two years ago, ensnared itself in my zipper one afternoon while I was in the bathroom. I got out of that one with a minor hole near the lower hem for my trouble, though I did lose the pants thanks to snapping off the zipper pull. It should have been my sign that the shirt was self-destructive, that it was determined to find its way out of my weekly rotation if it was the last thing it ever did.

Did I mention this shirt was the most expensive shirt I owned by nearly 80%? While most of my clothing comes from second-run discounters, I bought this shirt at a men's clothing store that caters to big and tall gents such as myself. Needless to say, it was also the shirt that fit me the best -- as I'm not muscular, nor am I fat, but I do have a somewhat long and pear-shaped torso that tends to undo my best efforts at tucking in shirts of a normal length.

I'd write this off as unfortunate happenstance, but today the second-priciest article of my professional wardrobe deserted me as well. Again in the bathroom, the buckle of my leather reversible belt -- a buckle I'd previously praised for its ingenious ability to swivel on an axis, maintaining the clean and fashionable look regardless of black or brown display -- snapped clean off as I was refastening it. The belt was undone by the very cleverness by which it sold itself.

Clearly there is a conspiracy at large in my closet, an attack aimed at the wallet that forced my clothes into servitude. Only the strongest of starches will do as I endeavor to subdue my wardrobe and rein it back into line. Irons will be employed, and drying racks are not too extreme! The mutiny stops here!

But first I wonder if I could get this destructive tendency to migrate to my wife's underwear drawer.