Since I launched my blog Dan and I have a new ritual; each morning he reads my posting from the night before while I beg him to let me sleep for 10 more minutes. Repeatedly. Dan doesn’t have an easy job to begin with, but then the first thing I ask him is what he thought of my entry, and he says it was good. That’s it. Can you believe him? I’m not saying he should throw me a parade every day, I’m just saying he should stop and acknowledge my genius.
Poor Dan never gets a break. Like when I’m trying on clothes-his life is hell. I ask him how something looks on me and he glances up for a minute and says it’s fine. As if that’s an acceptable answer! I need details-most of all is it flattering; is it my personal best? This confuses him. Then he decides he does have an opinion, like “I don’t really like that color.” Now he’s really asking for it. Let me worry about style and color, your only job is to tell me if it looks good on me. As if he woke up one day and turned into Ralph Lauren, or as he calls him, Tommy Hill-Finger.
I buy super-cute shoes and Dan notes that the toes are pointy and the heels are really high and I’m never going to be comfortable wearing them. Comfort? Who cares about comfort—the shoes are just too too cute. Of course when we’re headed back to the car after a party and I can barely walk in my fabulous shoes, I have to listen to him muttering under his breath about my stupid shoes. When I get home and pull off the shoes, I’ll admit, my toes are still crammed together forming a point just like they had to when I was wearing the shoes. I can’t really pry them apart for a few minutes. Naturally Dan picks that moment to tell me I should wear more sensible shoes. Like I should head straight for the rack labeled Frumpy for the sake of comfort.
We already know that Dan favors pleather shoes because of the animal situation, and he’s not exactly the greatest dresser in the world. But he is surprisingly alert. A couple of Fridays ago he put on a bright Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and pleather sneakers. As Michael Kors would say, it was a lotta look. When I noted he looked, umm, festive, he said “this is the last chance I’ll have for aloha-wear until next summer.” Aloha-wear? Really? What did he have beyond a dozen Hawaiian shirts? Was there a coconut bra and grass skirt in his closet? A muu-muu?
I think the thing that Dan hates the most is when I’m deciding between two outfits and I keep asking him which is better. He assures me that they’re both great and throws in something like “go with your gut” as if that’s any help. Finally he’ll blurt out that one or the other is better, and after careful consideration I wear the one he didn’t choose.
Dan just sighs and goes back to reading the paper.