Note before I begin:
TH is not a supporter of this blog. I mean, he supports everything I do. But he doesn’t read the blog. And he expects to not be mentioned–ever. For the unitiated, TH stands for The Husband.
So, I mention him only when necessary. That’s fair.
I had to ask for special permission to write this post. And my permission was granted–grudgingly. So I ask that if you know him, pretend you didn’t read this post. If someone tweets him or shoots out an email to him, teasing him about this post, my blog will be shut down forever.
Okay, so here’s the thing.
I’m one of those neck-swiveling wives. I’m not meek. If I think he should wash the dishes, I’m nagging. If I don’t like something he says, he’ll know it. My pointer finger has been known to be in the near vicinity of his face.
My husband is unflappable. When I’m giving lip, he ignores me. When I’m nagging, he nods and smiles and goes back to watching Meet The Press.
But when it really goes down and I need him, he’s there for me. Unwavering.
We’re both self-made hustlers. We chin-stroke often and try to figure out how to take over the world. If we ever joined forces and did a blog or a radio show or a book–we’d be dangerous. For real.
But we don’t get down like that.
It’s almost like when we leave the house, we morph into different characters—Clark Kent and Lois Lane, giving each other a sly smile from across a crowded industry party.
Damn. I’m digressing like mad.
I am a fiercely independent, hear-me-roar kind of woman. If TH says something I don’t like, maybe something like how long are these dishes going to sit here. I might snap back and say, until you wash them.
You know. That kind of thing.
One thing I’ve never given much thought to is how my look is perceived by TH.
I’m a jeans and flats kind of girl. A Little Black Dress when I have to. I do like a sky high stiletto. But that’s about as far into fashion I go.
And TH is on the same level with me. Rugby and denim during the week. With the occasional fly blazer combo. And cleans up very nice when necessary.
This weekend was his class reunion.
Y’all know what I was thinking. What the heck am I going to wear?
My shallow side took over. My husband was popular in high school. Cute girlfriends. All that. I was a mousy geek whose hair was rarely done. And I’m just coming into my own as far as confidence and fashion sense.
So, I looked in my closet to see what I would wear. I wanted to look exceptional. Not just nice. For once in my life, I wanted to make an entrance. I wanted people to nudge each other and say, who is that?
Did I already mention that I understand that I was being shallow? Okay. Good. Cause it gets worse.
Here’s the dress I pulled out of my closet: