When I shop for clothes, I wait till summer. That’s when the fall lines drop, filling catalogs with browns and blacks and blues and grays — my kind of shades.

Already I’ve bought a brown corduroy collar shirt and three sweatshirts of various styles, two in black and one in “midnight,” a charcoal-blue that exudes a singular mystery. Of course it will be two months before I can wear any of it. Still, fall rules. Off with t-shirts, shorts and the stumpy, undignified socks that go with them. And, as the heavens part and angels sing: no flip-flops, or what I call satan’s hooves.

What I really want now in this autumn urge is the pair of black and olive Todd Snyder sneakers I keep eyeballing online. But they are scandalously overpriced and it’s breaking my heart. (Hello, GoFundMe.) I also need a mid-weight coat, since my few jackets hit their expiration dates when “Gilmore Girls” aired on The WB.  

The coat is crucial. I go to London for a week in early November and I basically refuse to wear my nearly moth-eaten Barbour quilted jacket, despite its lingering suavity. It’s old and boring, having completed tours of duty around the world, fighting for my right to party. It’s time for an honorable discharge.

Rain. London can be lousy with it, though November temperatures hover in the 50s, which is my barometrical bag. So I need a coat that’s mid-weight and fairly water-resistant. 

Where I’m at right now it’s 82 degrees and pouring rain — the midsummer soak. It sort of reminds me of the jacket I need. Chances are another Barbour, the classic British brand with James Bondian connotations (see: “Skyfall”). This is especially true since I’ll be in London, the obvious spot to look for a new Barbour, which should be plentiful and cheaper.

Unless we’re talking books, I am no shopaholic. Malls and shopping districts zombify me. I am definitely no clothes horse — more like a clothes donkey, procuring a couple pieces a year and perhaps a pair of sneakers. I read no fashion magazines. I can’t tell Dior from Gucci and don’t care. I peruse three or four online catalogs with more of a glancing interest, pshaw, than sweaty-palmed voracity. 

When I buy something, I try to make it count. Too often, though, I get a shirt, say, and months later it’s in the Salvation Army or Veteran’s pile, worn once or twice with gathering disappointment. And so savvy curation is paramount. Those Todd Snyder sneakers noted above? I have a creeping sensation they wouldn’t work out even if I could justify their pornographic price tag and see for myself. 

Clothes, like most purchases, are a gamble. (Look at the snaking returns line for Amazon products at Whole Foods — capitalistic carnage.) I fiendishly acquire books and, frankly, half are duds or don’t meet the hype. (That’s me, third in line at Whole Foods.)

Coupling is hard. Ask any character in any rom-com, dimples be damned. I think I’m having a tumultuous relationship with the thick, long-sleeve polo shirt I bought last year that’s this close to winding up in the Goodwill racks. We’ve lost that lovin’ feeling. It’s a nice fall shirt that cost a pretty penny, and it’s going cheap. 

Anyone?