I hate to admit it, but I think I sort of led my wife on a little bit over the weekend.

No, not like THAT.

We were downtown, and, out of nowhere, I mentioned I was thinking about buying a new pair of pants.

You should have seen her face light up.

It was almost as if I had said I was thinking about buying HER a new pair of pants. In our relationship, my talking about buying myself a new article of clothing is about as frequent as, you know, that other thing.

You know, me helping out around the house.

It’s not that I’m clothing-averse. In fact I’m rather fond of threads. Swear by ’em, in fact. Much to the relief of my friends and co-workers and random folks out in public alike, I wear clothes all the time.

They’re just not very … fashionable.

I’m OK with that, but all the time my more nattily attired better half tries to make me more presentable. She’s always buying me pants and shorts and shirts, which I try on, more often than not proclaim the gratis duds “just don’t fit right,” and, whatever she can’t (or won’t) return, I throw in a pile somewhere until the perfectly good article of attire it’s to replace finally gives up the ghost.

She really means well. OK, she might be a little embarrassed to be seen in public with such a style-challenged significant other, but I think she really has my best interests at heart.

But to hear me actually talk about potentially purchasing dungarees on my own must have worried her a bit. In the 17-plus years we’ve been married, I can count on one finger the number of pants I’ve purchased of my own free will. To talk about such a thing beforehand — premeditation, I believe, is the legal term — is so uncharacteristic, I could see her immediate glee turn skeptical with startling quickness.

But she’s a clever woman, and I could see her easing into the conversation, so she wouldn’t spook me.

“New pants, huh?” she asked casually. “Really?”

Behind her eyes, I thought I could see genuine concern. Maybe the alien seed pods had swapped me out for a more fashion-aware clone. Maybe this is what husbands do before they cheat. Maybe I was — after all this time — you know … how do I say it … chafing?

“Yeah,” I said, hoping to put her mind at ease quickly. “I saw them in a magazine. They’re bike pants. They look like regular khakis, but they’re made for cycling. They’re light and a little stretchy, and there’s a snap so you can roll up the cuffs, revealing a reflective band so cars can see you at night, and they have a strap for your bike lock, and a button-up pocket for your cell phone, and they’re slightly thicker in the behind to give you a little padding and last longer after rubbing on the saddle, and … ”

I looked at my wife and realized I’d lost her at “bike pants.”

The disappointment was palpable.

She wasn’t getting a new shopping buddy after all. No, I wasn’t going to get all catwalk-worthy, poring over the latest patterns and fabrics. No, I wasn’t going to become … presentable.

Oh, well. I think I detected a little relief, too. No aliens. No cheating. No chafing. All was right with the world after all.

“Bike pants, huh?” she asked, and I think I saw something else behind the eyes: hope.