On occasion, I've been known to leave my house dressed in a fashion somewhat more scrub-like than my mother
would like. On those occasions, she often makes some sort of remark, like
You look like the Wreck of the Hesperus!
Or, more commonly,
I hope you don't meet the woman of your dreams dressed like that!
To which I invariably reply, "If a woman's going to reject me because of what I'm wearing, she's certainly not the woman of my dreams." My mother then gets all flustered, because she's trying to make me look respectable. She doesn't realize that when it comes to what I wear, there are two opinions I respect: one of them's mine, and the other's not yours.