It was date night, so I put in a little effort. Effort meaning a shower. Little meaning shaving the wee bits. I dabbed on lotion and rifled through the closet for a date-worthy outfit. You know, the ensembles featured in magazines that focus on bringing you from day to night. Maybe I wasn’t magazine spread worthy, but certainly, I was spread-worthy. It would be a fun night out at Olivia’s on South Lamar.
I planned on applying makeup in the car and hoped my hair would air-dry. I’d continue working until he was ready to go. But when Phil saw me for the first time, in my brown dress, he made the face one makes when they’re told they’ve just consumed an animal’s testicle. Normally, I’d meet that look with a hint of panic, adding a "What? What’s wrong?" But I wasn’t going there. I was happy with my choice, and I didn’t want to hear what he thought was wrong with what I was wearing. Instead of entertaining any of it, I said simply, "Don’t be honest."
"Well, you’re the one who has to wear it," he said. So, I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a cast iron skillet, and whacked him upside the head. "If you’re happy wearing that, then, well, I guess that’s all that matters."
"Normally, I’d care, but I’ve given up. I don’t even want to know what you think is wrong. Let’s just go, shall we?" And so we did.
But in the car, I did wonder, what did he think was wrong? Do I look like a lard-ass in this? I thought. I opened the glove compartment hoping to find a wand of mascara. There hadn’t been time for makeup, and once we were in the car to go, I couldn’t run back upstairs and start the great hunt for the products, so to hell with it. "You don’t need makeup," he said, knowing exactly what I was up to as I rummaged. "You’re beautiful."
"Thank you, honeybell. But I know where you’re going with this… let me guess… if only my outfit didn’t put the tragedy into Greek Tragedy."
"You said it."
"All I can say is MEDIEVAL FEST."