Prior to our meeting, my husband had a love affair. A love affair with the sweater vest. To my satisfaction, he then took a six year hiatus from the sleeveless golfer’s delight and to be honest, I didn’t miss it. However, this past Christmas his father gave him, among other things, four shiny new sweater vests. As he untied the ribbon and opened the box his eyes lit up and sparkled. If I remember correctly there was even a tear in his eye. He immediately tried it on over his clothes, thus beginning our re-adventure into his fashion fetish.
The following is an actual conversation he and I had prior to meeting a friend for dinner one night. Hand on the Bible. Pinky promise. Girl Scout’s honor (I wasn’t a girl scout). I’m not kidding. We were getting ready to walk out the door and I was reaching into the closet for my coat because it was January and four degrees outside. That’s right. Four degrees.
Me: “You better get your coat. It’s really cold.” (Yes, I know he’s a grown man)
Husband: “Will you hand me the brown one without sleeves?”
Me: (My mouth gaped open.) “That’s a vest. A jacket without sleeves is a vest.”
Husband: “Yeah I know, Lori. Whatever. Just hand it to me please.”
Me: “But you already have on a sweater vest. If you put this one on top of it, then you will be wearing two vests.”
Husband: “Just gimme the @%$* thing!”
Me: “Are we going to stop and go rock climbing on the way to the Chinese place? I’m just wondering. I mean, why else would someone need to warm their core while having full range of motion in their arms?”
He began expressing his angst by sighing in a sort of “don’t start this” kind of fashion and I ultimately lost the battle when he reached around me and grabbed the vest himself. I had tried my best to block the closet with my body, but it was no use. So, my son and I went to dinner wrapped up like Eskimos at Christmas, flanked by the vested wonder wearing a thin long sleeve shirt and two vests, a cottony sweater type for “style” and a jacket type vest for warmth.
My hope for the future is that his taste in fashion will change, but if that doesn’t work, then I can hope for a band of renegade moths to storm his closet leaving nothing but clothes hangers.
