I recently made a shocking discovery about my husband. Something that shook me to the core and has changed all my preconceived notions of him. After thirteen years of marriage and an additional six years of friendship, I thought I had little more to learn.
Sure there were occasional moments when I exclaimed “Why did I not know this about you before?” I have learned to live with the knowledge that he is wrong in the ongoing Sammy Hagar vs. David Lee Roth debate. And one day he will accept that my duck billed platypus could defeat his deadly coral snake in our hypothetical critter death match!
But this new discovery went far beyond that.
How had I gone for so many years without knowing that my husband is, in his own words, “a heterosexual fashionista”? Yes, the –ista ending is female but I am not about to interrupt this previously unknown genius with a linguistic technicality.
This is the man who, let’s be clear, often displays a startling lack of personal fashion sense. Hawaiian shirts and camo shorts (together!) are de rigueur summer wear. Top to toe denim strikes him as a sensible, well put together combination.
How could such a man possibly be a hidden style maven of such magnitude?
I hate shopping for clothes. Loathe it. For years, I clung loyally to one store, buying two or three matching items at once. But the day came when my beloved store closed and I had to go to a conference…in Manhattan! After much gnashing of teeth, pulling of hair, and punching of pillows, all accompanied by a toddler-like whine of “I don’t wanna go to the mall!” my husband convinced me that this must be done.
I inched nervously toward the sliding doors. Inside, men slept on chairs as they waited for their wives. Couldn’t I just join them? Shoes, accessories, lingerie. Each department edged perilously closer to my living nightmare: women’s clothing. Row upon row of choice that, quite frankly, confused me. I was never a girly girl. Give me a book and I’m good.
“See anything you like?”
“Don’t know” was my pouty reply.
And then it happened. A transformation that, had it not occurred before my very eyes, I would never have believed. My husband, Mr. Zombie T-shirt, was gone. In his place was a whirling dervish of color and cotton, spinning through the racks, grabbing things in a seemingly random manner. He returned with a handful of items which, I have to admit, were very nice. I was even more surprised when I tried them on. They fit. Even better, they looked (pardon my French) freaking awesome!
I stepped out into the store to show him my latest outfit and found him laden with more to try. “This goes with this and this. Those both look good, but obviously not together.” As he offered his insights, women gathered around, asking where he had found such and such, what color would he recommend, did he think she could get away with wearing a knee-length…. One elderly woman clutched my arm. “I don’t know where you found him but he’s good!”
After a mere thirty minutes, I left the store, armed with three new skirts and three tops in cheerful colors that my staid British self would never have dared try. Sitting contentedly in the car, I heard him say, “And you may not have noticed but each top is interchangeable with the skirts so you have nine possible combinations.” I believe I fainted at that moment.
If anyone would like to rent a husband for their next shopping trip, call me. Reasonable rates. Satisfaction guaranteed.