My Husband Wears Black – Not for the Reasons You May Imagine
My husband wears black.
Not because he is of Mediterranean descent.
Not because it’s a fashion statement.
I was always really grateful for this odd character quirk, mainly because he often tended to wear much of the food he was eating. Not that he was a particularly messy eater, its just that at some stage he always managed to drop something down his front.
I have found however it’s really important not to set yourself on too high a pedestal because as fate would have it, life often drops everything straight back in your lap, literally.
Craig and I were getting ready for a wedding and I had laid out for him his cloths, this included the beautiful new white shirt I had just bought for him.
He took one look at it and with all the wisdom of the ages stated, “it’s white, what happens when I spill my dinner on it” Some would call him a pessimist I choose to think of him as a realist.
I consider myself to be of reasonable intellect and despite all previous experience with Craig and clothes and food, all put together, for some unknown reason this question had not entered my mind. May be it was the optimism of the day, could there be a better time for it than a wedding?
We didn’t have a choice, the wedding was at four, it was three o’clock already and the trip took an hour.
There was only one thing to do, throw caution to the wind and take our chances with the white shirt.
I needn’t really to have worried, as it turned out it’s the brown shoe polish you have to watch out for.
Sitting in the car waiting to leave I heard Craigs voice float down to me from the verandah, “Does brown boot polish come out.” Instantly I felt the blood drain from my face. My dream of turning up with the tall, dark haired stranger (we didn’t know many of the invitees) in the crisp, snow white shirt were evaporating by the second.
The brown shoe polish stain dissolved remarkably well in water and the soaked front of the shirt was nearly dry by the time we entered the wedding venue.
I needn’t have worried, Craig said he would drive, so the only liquid that passed his lips was water. Then after the first hor’d’ erve he informed me he had a virus and felt like dying so that was the end of food for him.
No worries, I didn’t let the side down. A huge piece of spicy red sauce landed down my right side and spattered all over the front of my pale pastel dress.
I’m now considering how we would look in his and hers matching black.
Yay team goth.
Zesty Mumma's Words 