My Mourning Glory

gorgeous

“From now on,” said Tracey, “whenever we’re going out I’m going to take a picture of you and how you dress.”

“Why?”

“For your funeral.”

Jeez, this was more serious than I thought.Β This conversation had quickly escalated after Tracey walked into our room and demanded to know why I wasn’t ready to leave yet.

“What are you doing?” Tracey spluttered when she saw me. “We have to go. You need to get dressed.”

We were off to her father’s 60th birthday party. Naturally, we were running late.

“I am dressed.”

Tracey looked me over. A look of embarrassment at her faux pas failed to register on her face.

“No, you’re not.”

“Tracey, I’ll have you know I put considerable thought into this ensemble,” I said, and quickly went on before she could rebut this. “Specifically, this shirt. Your dad’ll love it. It’s the only one I have with anything Ford on it.” Probably because he gave it to me. He’s a big Ford fan.

There was a pause.

“Is that it?” she wanted to know.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you put in considerable thought,” she said. “Are you finished? Was that the whole reason? Is there anything else? You’ve mentioned the shirt but not the shorts or your Sampsons. I mean, you’re essentially wearing camouflage pants and a visibility shirt. What other things were going through your head when you dressed yourself?”

In actual fact I was thinking about whether or not to buy beer on the way, but I decided not to mention this.

“Well, that’s a hell of a lot more thought than I usually give it,” I said.

And Tracey magnanimously decided to grant me that point. But I still had to change my clothes.

“Come out here,” she said, falling just short of dragging me onto the balcony by my ears. “I’m taking your photo.”

“Why?”

“Every time you dress yourself to go out I want you to think ‘these are the photos they’re going to throw up on a screen at my funeral’. Maybe then you’ll dress a bit more respectably.”

“Okay. Got it,” I said, and ducked back inside for a costume change.

“Better, I suppose,” said Tracey doubtfully, as she took another snap. “At least the t-shirt is a name brand. But why don’t you wear something button up with a collar?”

“I don’t have any the right colour,” I said. My wife looked confused. “Out of respect for myself from now on I’ve decided to only wear black.”

I suspect I’m about two functions away from Tracey laying my clothes out on the bed for me to wear. Now tell me I don’t think these things through πŸ™‚

still

When not over here, Bruce Devereaux hangs out at his Big Family Little Income Facebook Page. Come join us πŸ™‚

”Raising a family on little more than laughs.”

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