So the other day a package arrived at our house. Normally I like getting packages, since there’s usually something fun inside; perhaps something I’d ordered that had just arrived. An open package is a cardboard rectangle of potential.

In this particular instance, I eyed the package with dread. Not because I feared it contained explosives or zombies, but because it contained clothing my wife ordered. In my house, boxes of clothing inspire more dread than any brain-thirsty undead horde. I can at least destroy the horde with a shovel and a water gun full of Drano. I am defenseless against the clothing.

Here’s the thing about the clothes: they make Colette crazy. But not in a fun, “Hey, let’s do another tequila shot” kind of way. It’s more like a distressed, “I think I did too many tequila shots” way. She orders clothes online all the time. She prefers to buy clothes at stores, but for whatever reason, she rarely has much luck in malls. Either the clothes she likes are too expensive, or they don’t look good once she tries them on, or whatever.

As a result, she turns to catalogs and web sites. Lord knows we get enough of them in the mail. In the past month alone, we’ve received enough Victoria’s Secret catalogs to wallpaper Luxembourg. Not that I mind finding Victoria’s Secret catalogs in the mailbox twice a week, per se, but I can only fit so many on the back of the toilet, you know?

Anyway, the problem Colette has with ordering clothes that she has only seen in print or online is that more often than not, when the clothes arrive, there’s a problem. Sometimes the clothes are too big. Other times they’re too small. In the case of one rather memorable sweater, they’re too see-through. (I still rue the day she sent that one back, but I do suppose I can see the drawbacks from her point of view. Actually, no, I can’t. That sweater was awesome.)

Whenever one of her packages of clothing arrives, Colette gets all excited. She loves getting new clothes but, like anyone on a budget, she can’t buy them all that often. It’s a small victory to find something new to wear. So when she tears into her new package and finds a package of crushing disappointment, she can get really bummed out. At best, she’s irritated for a while. At worst, she launches into the I Can Never Find Anything to Wear rant, which is often followed by its corollary speech, I Am So Sick of My Wardrobe. All of this, of course, also bums me out, because aggravated, frustrated wives are less likely to tell you you’re awesome and/or make delicious meatloaf. That, and we men are never very good at seeing our ladies upset. It makes us want to kill and eat whatever is making them unhappy. But I can neither kill nor eat a mail-order clothing company, both for legal and culinary reasons, so then we’re both unhappy.

And of course, this happens time and again. I’d guess that out of every 10 times Colette orders clothing online, seven don’t work out. That’s an awful lot of crabby Colette. Imagine coming downstairs for Christmas morning over the course of 10 years and finding nothing but a disgruntled ferret waiting under the tree for you. After a while you’d probably start to wonder why Santa hates you so much.

This all raises another issue for me. After seeing so many clothing orders get sent back – and witnessing so much aggravation on Colette’s part – I started suggesting to her that maybe she stop ordering clothes that she can’t try on first. I might as well suggest that she use ketchup as lipstick. She tells me that she’s gotten some really nice things from the catalogs, things that look great and last for years. And she’s right. But my point is, if I’m a mouse, and I go to the food dish 10 times, and three of those visits results in my snagging a delicious nugget, but the other seven earn me nothing more than a vicious electric shock that results in bladder failure and melted eyelashes, I find another source of food. Ya know? I don’t care if those nuggets taste like nacho-flavored pizza; the shock therapy isn’t worth it.

Colette sees it differently. She assumes that every trip to the food dish will garner her a morsel; she’s genuinely surprised and dismayed when she gets shocked. I therefore begun taking it upon myself to impart my wisdom upon her. When she shows me a few things in a catalog and asks which one I like best, I now say, “It doesn’t matter. None of them will fit.” Usually this earns me a dirty look. But I stand my ground. I still tell her which item I like better, but I stand my ground. And of course she orders anyway.

All of which is why I cringe a little on the inside when packages arrive at our door, like the one from the other day. I almost didn’t want to watch her open the box, but like a commuter driving past a fender-bender, I had to see if I could spot something gross.

She put the box on the counter, cut off the tape, pulled out one of the shirts she’d ordered and quickly tried it on.

We stood there for a moment as she looked down at the shirt.

Then she looked at me. “Don’t you say a word,” she said.

It isn’t easy to always be right, people.

Bob Rybarczyk (brybarczyk@sbcglobal.net) writes stuff. He drinks so much Diet Dew that he’s pretty sure his blood is green. Look for his novel, “Acoustic Kitty,” at area Borders stores and online at Amazon.com. And coming soon, a collection of the best of the Fringe.