I’ve never had much luck with Pretty Boys.
In high school, I scored a date once with an honest-to-God Ralph Lauren model, an 18-year-old jet setter with chiseled cheekbones who promised me a night I’d never forget. He was absolutely right; it ended up being the first and only time I’ve ever been stood up. To be honest, the fact that he didn’t show wasn’t half as irritating as the pitying looks on my parents’ faces. Much later, I heard from a friend that he’d gotten back together with his ex-girlfriend that afternoon. The fucker.
College found me dating a blonde Adonis that I had worshipped back in junior high, when he was an eighth grade Ricky Schroeder lookalike and I was a sixth grade, chubby-cheeked nothing. Unbelievably, when we met again in college he remembered me* and asked me out. We had nothing in common except a shared love for fart jokes, but I wasted an entire year of my life dating him anyway, simply because I couldn’t get past the thought that the sixth grade me would have freaked out if she had known that she would one day
be
Dallas Cody’s girlfriend.
The problem with Dallas, though (besides the Elle McPherson
Playboy that I found hidden in his bathroom), was that wherever we went, girls would throw themselves at him, particularly if they were drunk, which (
hello! it was
college!), was
always. It was too much work fending them off and besides, I wanted all eyes on
me when my man and I came through the door, not
him. The day we said our goodbyes, I went up to my sorority house bedroom, cried, threw up, resolved never to date a pretty boy ever, ever again, and left for a frat party.
And since then, life has been good. I’ve dated good looking guys, but I’ve been careful to choose only those rugged types who can get ready for anything in under ten minutes. And my husband is no exception. He has swoonworthy eyes, a gorgeous smile and incredible muscles, but let’s face it: the man has no fashion sense whatsoever and you know what? That’s just the way I like it.
“Does this look okay?” he asked one day not long ago before he left for work. He was going to be interviewing a roller derby squad that day, women with names like Booby Dooby Doo and Vixxxen, and he was wearing a lime green sportcoat, a pink shirt, and maroon pants.
“Honey,” I smiled. “You look
great.” I smiled to myself as he went out the front door. Yep. Life was good.
Sometimes, however, my little keep-my-man-to-myself scheme backfires. Saturday was one of those days.
Both my older girls were scheduled to play indoor soccer games and Hubs and I had taken separate cars to the gym. I arrived shortly after the first game began and since he was coaching behind a dividing wall on the other side of the indoor field, I didn’t see what he was wearing until he walked over to me after the game. When I saw him, my stomach clenched into a hard knot.
My husband had on an oversized white t-shirt and…
Pajama bottoms.
Christmas pajama bottoms.
One of the moms walked up to me while Hubs was still approaching. “Molly wants to know why Dennis is wearing
Santa pants,” she said wonderingly.
“
I’d like to know the same thing,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Hi!” Hubs said coming up to us, seemingly oblivious to his epic fashion faux pas. I thought quickly and decided that if I acted like nothing was wrong, perhaps all the parents around us would think he was…
cutting edge… that Santa pants must be all the rage in
Paris or something. And so we kissed and talked about the game and I tried my best to act like hanging out with a Santa pants wearer at a girls’ soccer game was the most ordinary thing in the world. After what seemed like an eternity, it was time for 14’s second game to begin and Hubs walked back over to the other side where, thank God, he was visible only from the waist up.
“Did you see Hubs?” I murmured to my 17-year-old when she came over to stand beside me during the game.
“The pajama pants?” she said. “I can’t believe it.”
“And with that old wrinkled t-shirt!” I said. “He looks like he just rolled out of bed! I’m going to have to talk with him later.”
I waited until dinner that night to make my move.
“Hubs,” I said haltingly. “Those… pants…”
“What?” he said, immediately defensive. “I like them!”
“I like them, too,” I said. “I
bought them for you. But they’re
pajama bottoms.”
“They’re not pajama bottoms!” he retorted. “They’re Zoobas!”
“What are
Zoobas?!” my 14-year-old asked.
“Eighties weightlifting pants.”
14 snorted with dismay.
“Hubs,” I said calmly, rationally. “They’re not
Zoobas. They’re
pajamas. I bought them in the
pajama section, not the
Zooba section.”
“They can be Zoobas if I want them to be Zoobas!” Hubs insisted. “I wear them to the Y at least once a week!”
This was worse than I had thought. “Well then you need to stop,” I said. “Old Navy sold them to you with the understanding that you would be wearing them as pajamas. Not Zoobas. That makes them look bad. They wouldn’t like it. And another thing. They’re
Santa pants.”
“They’re not!” he said. “They’re
pirate pants! Look! Skulls!”
“Skulls wearing red and green Santa hats.”
“These are pirate hats!”
“Pirates. Don’t. Wear. Pompoms.
at the ends of their hats!” I hissed.
“Well, I don’t care. I like my Zoobas and I’m going to wear them,” he declared.
Once again, we are at a fashion impasse and I’m reminded of why marriage can be so difficult sometimes, and so frustrating. Because I promised to love him for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.
But I never said anything about
Zoobas.
*Unfortunately, he only remembered me because he claimed that back in junior high, I had sent him a black balloon on Valentine’s Day with a message that said, “Revenge will be mine!” I always vehemently denied it, but the truth is, it was me. I told you I was a loser.
So um, Lindsay, I have this really like, awesome idea for my room! I mean, I know how it could look, like, totally hot!
And I'm sure it was like, difficult to keep your mouth shut when I started cutting out pictures from magazines and thumbtacking them into the walls! And when I asked you to replace the switchplate with one that said '90% Angel?' But now I've got like, the best idea ever!
See, there's this like, incredible graffiti artist? He's my friend Chummy's mentor and his name is Mindbeam? And he said he'll like, tag one wall of my room! He'll put whatever I want on it! Like my name, or a phrase like 'Whatever, Dude,' or maybe even a gang symbol! He's already spray painted Alyssa and Margaret's rooms! But you can't go see what their rooms look like now, because um. That would be, like, awkward.
Wouldn't that look awesome?! I mean, can you even imagine it? A graffiti artist in our house, spray painting our walls and whatever else gets in his way? In our house, like figuring out where we keep the jewelry and our laptops? Rawk!
And don't worry, I'll like totally pay him for it! Even though I already owe you guys $70 and I just crashed your car (on the one day I was driving your car instead of mine!) in a parking deck for God's sake, and it'll probably cost a grand to repair! No! I'll totally pay him with uh, money from the special money tree that grows in the undeveloped part of my adolescent mind!
So what do you think? You'll let me do it, right?
