In my own feeble defense, I was a little distracted by the look on my future husband's face, so I was a bit slow on the uptake that fine summer evening.Five seconds earlier, we had crossed the threshold of Jos. A. Bank and already he was manifesting the blank look of panic that accompanies dissociation-in-progress. He was leaving his 42-long body before even looking at new jackets, let alone trying anything on.
I'm filled with compassion, but also on task during our first clothes shopping trip as a couple. Cozy. For me, anyway.
"I'm very good at this, want me to take over?"
He nods yes, smart man. Moments later, I'm flipping through jacket options like my family had been in the schmatte trade for centuries. Two for one on jackets? Buy two get one free on slacks? Game on. Bring it.
"Here's a nice hounds-tooth with a blue that will highlight your eyes."
"Okay and I need black."
"Check out the muted herringbone. It'll go well with taupe trousers."
"Okay and I need black."
Unreal, even more so because we're in Baltimore, not New York City. For the record, I'll take Manhattan.
I shoot the saleswoman a look, the kind of look that passes between women in men's clothing departments. She has already approved the two jackets I've selected and explained how they look much better than the one he chose -- in a fugue state.
"How about a new blue blazer? The one you have is looking a bit . . . ratty."
I'll wait until after we're married before mentioning the so-wrongness of things like nautical-themed faux brass buttons.
"No, I need black."
"Jeez, what's with the black thing? Planning to go to lots of funerals or what?"
Dead silence. A glimpse of reality. The World to Come.
