So I was sitting on the couch in the Stepfordville family room this morning, chugging coffee and watching the morning news, when my husband strolled in. Now, of course he is a vision of handsome manliness, always. Let me just say that for the record.
But there are occasions when he doesn’t, um, accessorize his manly mansomeness (yes, I just made up that word) to best advantage. Today was one of those occasions. He had paired a casual navy shirt adorned by beige and white stripes with dressy gray, subtly-patterned slacks.
“Honey,” I said. “Stacy and Clinton would not approve of that outfit.”
“Who?” He looked baffled.
“The hosts of What Not To Wear, dearest.”
“So?” He put on his watch.
It was evident that I needed to change tacks. So I said, “I don’t think your mother would want you to leave the house wearing that.”
“My mother hasn’t dressed me since I was ten. What are you trying to tell me?”
See, men are really smart. He understood that there was some hidden message underneath my feeble attempts at tact.
“I’m just thinking that maybe a white shirt or a plain blue shirt would complement those pants a little better.”
“My pants,” he said, “are very secure. They don’t need to be complimented.”
“Well, I’m so glad for them! Isn’t that nice. Tell you what, honey: since they’re not having any self-esteem issues, let’s take pity on your khaki pants that are. They just said to me the other day that they need to get out more.”
“You’re having conversations with the trousers in my closet?” he asked, eyeing me strangely.
What could I say? “I’m very intuitive. So there’s no actual dialogue, per se, but I can sense their needs.”
My husband put his wallet in his pants and picked up his cell phone and keys. He edged towards the hallway. “Sweetheart, I think all this writing is affecting your mental state. I think you may need to get some help.”
At this point, I flung myself between him and the door. “You’re not escaping the house like that. Go and change!”
The truth dawned on him. “Ohhhhhh,” he said. “You don’t like what I’m wearing. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “You raved about someone named Stacy, and my mother, and talking pants. Women are crazy. You never get to the point.”
True. We probably are crazy. But at least we can dress ourselves, right?
p.s. Um, when we get around to it. KK is the very picture of elegance right now in pink p.j.’s with red lobsters embroidered on them . . . Cannes stars, eat your heart out.