Women. Wives. Fiancées. Girlfriends. Boyfriends (if it fits). When we say, you look good in a particular outfit, we mean itits our immutable creed of Rapid Reflexive Response. And if we dont meant it, we sure as hell arent going to say so. Why, no, hon, those stripes should be vertical. Or. That color is so-o-o-o-o not you. Or. That blouse/top is too low cut, simply are statements we are not going to utter. We treasure our sanity. . .our lives, in fact. Besides. We do think you look beautiful. And. We know we are goobers when it comes to dressing up. Suits make us look like mini-versions of Lurch. We know and you know (and we know you know that we know) that you look better than us. Its one reason why we married youyou make us look better with your radiance. (P.S. This same law of RRR generally holds true on such classic questions as Do these pants make my butt look big? Now, that is a black hole of a question if there ever was one. It is one of the top three least favorite questions EVER asked of a man. We break out in a sweat; we get the dry heaves; we change the subject. Please help us help ourselves and forego said question in the future.)
Anyway, we were ready. And did I mention how scrumptious and lovely my wife looked? One last check to make sure everything was in its proper place on our bodies and that we had a key to get back in later that night. Out the door we go, hang a left, and begin walking down the corridor to the stairs. As we top the first set of stairs, I feel something whacking against my pant leg. Raising my arm to look down, I notice that once again the maroonic bug had bitten me.
It might be a good idea to get these tags off my clothes, dont you think? I queried. Oh, yes. I had not only walked out of the stateroom, but had passed dozens of people wearing tags that shouted, Im a doofus! Oops. And with that incident emblazoned in my memoryand freshly de-taggedwe stepped into Palo once again. . .after a quick check to make sure no toilet paper was stuck to my new shoes. . .