I was putting on my mascara in front of the den mirror so I could watch Good Morning America when Keith looked up at me and said cheerfully, “Well, isn’t that a cute little make-up frock.” (I think he meant smock.) I looked back at him, using my mascara wand like I pointer and said, “Honey, this is a dress. It’s what I’m wearing to work.”
“Oh!” he said.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked.
“Nothing’s wrong with it, Baby. I see exactly what you mean now. It’s not a frock for putting on make-up. It’s a dress. And you’re wearing it to work,” he replied. He quickly went back to his newspaper.
I went back to my mascara. And then, for some reason, I got tickled. Tickled enough to nearly have tattooed my hairline with L’oreal Volume Shocking Mascara: Blackest Black. “Poor man,” I thought. He meant to come up with somebody so different than me. But, then again, this entry is not about marriage. It’s about different tastes between people who, ironically, have a strong taste for one another. Keith and I did not start out with one single shared taste. Not one. Not in denominations. Not in vacations. Not in friends. Not in hobbies. Not in jobs. And most assuredly not in wardrobe. And that one, like most of them, never changed. He is all western. I am…not. I don’t know what I am. Neither does he. No big deal except that Keith likes to buy me clothes because that was his sweet daddy’s love language to his mother.
For the first 15 years of our marriage, Keith took every special occasion to dress me like a business executive. Lots of black or navy suits with white blouses. Expensive things for our tight budget. I loved him so much that I acted thrilled but my inner man was asnore. I’d imagine how many conglomerations from Weiner’s (a low-budget, high-clutter department store back in the day) I could’ve mixed and matched for that kind of money. A whole closet full of frocks! He’d interrupt my thought process with stuff like, “I got you this because I never see you in anything like it and thought you could use it.” Where? Taking the kids to MDO? But he was so precious, I couldn’t resist him. I’d think of places to wear it, especially when I had to go somewhere I didn’t want to go. That way I could offer a sacrifice of praise.
The second set of fifteen years, he gave up on the executive look for me and took a giant step upward to western wear. Between the wide open cactus-lands of West Texas and the cold mountain air of Wyoming, my well-worn boots and scruffy leather jackets testify to his celebratory success…in the casual-wear genre. The problem is, he doesn’t just have casual western wear in mind for me. I have a closet full of fancy jackets with studs and fringe on them (a few look to have been be-dazzled) as well as a multi-colored assortment of broom skirts. Though I’m tempted to stop here and make several comments, I’m going right on to the next sentence. What doesn’t help Keith’s shopping variety is his strong propensity to be in West Texas just prior to every special occasion we have: Christmas, wedding anniversary, you name it. Since he’s not one to shop in advance, he invariably panics on the way home then, thanks-be-to-God, remembers that great Texas icon, the D&D Western Store on Interstate 10 at Seguin. (Good Heavens, I just had a flash back to all Keith has taught me about Texas hero Juan Seguin and the history of that town and actually came within a dot of thinking you’d care to hear it.) Awash with relief, Keith eagle-eyes the exit in the horizon and flies so fast that Beanie’s birddog-lips nearly wrap around her head. He then, the way I picture it, commences to have the sales woman ring up everything fancy in my size. Another occasion saved.
And sometimes they’re just darling.
And other times only he is. Every time I see one of the less worn western frocks in my closet, I feel really guilty. Right then I wish I fished or something.
Keith has a small measure of mercy on my lack of good taste since it wasn’t my fault. It was my parents’. They took too long to get to Texas. Back where I come from, western was something you were for Halloween. In Keith’s estimation, tastes are developed early which is precisely why Jackson has had a wide assortment of camouflage in every size from newborn on. Keith intentionally waited to purchase the boy’s first western wear until just last weekend, however, because it’s more sacred. He believes a soul ought to be old enough to appreciate the privilege. He walked through the door from out of town with an arm full of boxes and presented Jackson his first ensemble: a snap-up western shirt, Wranglers and Justin boots. I could have sworn I saw a tear in his eye. (Not Jackson’s. Keith’s. But I’ve had tears in my eyes on my own occasions.) Keith awarded him the prize with all the pride and emotion of a Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo first-place bull rider. Praise God, it wasn’t wasted on the boy. To his Bibby’s delight, he is big on enthusiasm. Though he walked a bit strange in his boots at first (kinda like he was walking in meadow of fresh cow patties), Jackson clearly knew he was a stud. He’s already worn the ensemble to church. Amanda says he loves to put the boots on but they have to make sure they’re going somewhere he can mosey since he has to stop every few steps to stomp one foot. And make sure everybody’s watching. Especially Ella or Ava. It just makes a woman swoon every time.
I know because I did.
But that doesn’t mean I have a mind to wear them.
My make-up smock.
The big day.
Trying to get a picture of the all-important Wrangler tag.
Tags: Jackson
Hi, Neat post. There is a problem with your website in internet explorer, would check this… IE still is the market leader and a big portion of people will miss your magnificent writing because of this problem.