Back when the P-Dawg and I started dating, I would go to the mall on a Saturday afternoon (because I had absolutely nothing better to do) and buy him sweaters. The black turtleneck sweater was the very pinnacle of my fashion aspirations for the P-Dawg, but I was not totally inflexible, and sometimes I would also buy him a gray or green turtleneck sweater. The sweaters would go directly from my shopping bag to the P-Dawg’s closet, never to be seen again.
A day came when the turtlenecks became so numerous that they threatened to take over the P-Dawg’s apartment. On this day he said to me, “Rima. I can’t stand turtleneck sweaters.”
We got married, anyway. And every year at Christmas I would buy the P-Dawg a new sweater, but not a turtleneck. The P-Dawg, because he is a wonderful husband, would wear his new sweater on Christmas Day. One day it finally dawned on me that the love of my life was not a Sweater Guy. And neither, unfortunately, was he a Black Shoes with Silver Buckles Guy.
He was a flannel and hoodies guy, and I loved him.
The P-Dawg took a much deserved day off work yesterday and we spent it together. We went on a nice long hike, then out for sushi. Afterwards, we had an hour to kill before picking the kids up from school, so my husband ran into the hunting and fishing supply store for a couple of items. I stayed in the car because I would rather poke myself in the eye with burning embers than go inside Gander Mountain.
The P-Dawg seized this opportunity and ran with it. He bought himself a new wardrobe made up almost entirely of nylon and brown flannel. I can just see him now, running up and down the aisles with his cart, gleefully tossing plaid shirts and pants with velcro closures inside of it.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from twelve years of marriage, it’s that you can’t force a man into a turtleneck sweater.
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