As you may recall, my husband has a penchant for regarding me as a stripper. This came to the fore yet again at a recent trip to Kohl's.
Many do not know this, but I actually do my best clothes shopping when Eamon is along. He makes me try on things I would never try on, and encourages me to express my inner 16-year-old, with often surprisingly successful results.
The down side is that occasionally, for Eamon, libido overrides both taste and common sense as he attempts to squeeze me into some truly unfortunate and inappropriate outfits. Thus it was as he handed me a striped halter top, asking, "How brave are you feeling?"
Well, I was feeling fairly brave, so I assented, returned to the fitting room, and strapped myself in. Friends, it was a sight to behold. I am not small-busted; colorful horizontal stripes across my rather ample endowment did nothing to minimize the effect. And then there was the deep front plunge, held up by only the tightest of knots secured around my neck.
In a word, I looked like a hoochie.
Bravely, I left the fitting room, caught Eamon's eye, and announced to all the world that I was a hoochy mama. He gave the top an appraising glance through squinted eyes. For a moment, there was a glimmer of hope on his face -- as if to say, maybe, just maybe I could be convinced to wear this outfit into society. But then he faced reality.
"No," he admitted, "that really is too hoochie."
A clerk, strolling by, opined, "Well, maybe ... " Then her face fell. "No, I guess not."
I know hoochie when I see it.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment