My Husband, Without His Knowledge or Permission, Is a Hipster
This is how this all went down:
I am clearing out the husband’s closet. I am not especially sure why I am doing this task, except that cleaning the cat box was also on my to-do list, and I decided to postpone it for the pleasure of purging some pleated Dockers. (Say that fast twice.)
And then, I spied them.
Maroon, with a big yellow stripe, circa 1988, suspenders you wore to your formal with your semi-mullet and I bet a thorough dousing of Polo cologne. You had attempted to wear them again, just after we had first met, to a wedding of a friend. I remember the conversation very well*:
Me: So, what are you going to wear tonight?
Future husband who has no idea he has been targeted as future husband: Um. (Looks down at his jeans and Hawaiian short combo.) Tonight?
Me: Yes, to the wedding, remember?
Future husband who still has no idea he is future husband and that this is our first official date amidst other friends. Plus, it’s a WEDDING. Cue the marital foreshadowing!!!!!: Um… a shirt? and a tie?
Me: Ok. Well, I’m wearing my Anne Taylor mint green dress, the one with the sea-foam crinoline and the pink embroidery?
Future husband who is stumped by the use of the word “crinoline“: Ok. That sounds nice. Um, OH! I know! I’ll wear my suspenders!
Future husband who has NO idea what he is saying; suspenders? REALLY?: Yep!
Me: Ok. Well. All right then, we can talk about this later. (Fyi: “We can talk about this later” is Jedi Mind Trick for “You will not wear suspenders to this wedding.” It worked.)
Now, nearly nine years later, thing have changed. The suspenders? THEY ARE COOL.
And then I realized: My dear husband has been slyly giving me hipster shade all these years. That time you complained about your tall black socks slumping, and I sarcastically mentioned you get these things?
You actually paused for a moment, and I realized you were considering them. Sly sock hipster.
There were other red flags: Our first real married argument was over the fact that I did not pack a shoe horn for you on our honeymoon. (Yes, I know, I was the packer. Mainly this was because all your clothes were already at our little house and you were living out of a duffel bag back at your bachelor pad. Plus, suspenders. I had learned my lesson.)
I think the conversation went like this:
Husband who is now stuck with me forever: Where is my shoehorn?
Me: What’s a shoehorn?
Husband who is now making a grave mistake by continuing on this line of questioning: You know (gesturing a bit) my shoe thing?
Me: We’re going to hoe something?
Husband: (big, fat, married silence)
Me: Darling, we’re on vacation. Do flip-flops need shoehorning? I have never said “shoe horn” this much in one conversation. Is this code for something romantic?
Sly honeymoon hipster.
And, finally, I give you THIS:
No, NOT the kid. The HAT. I do realize on the kid this hat that you wear nearly every day is cute. Cute on a four year old, yes. On you, it kinda conjures up this:
But then, I realized the awful irony (which is doubly troubling because hipsters try so darn hard to NOT try hard and NOT, under any circumstances, actually be ironic. And I know, that sentence is very difficult to understand, but hipsters get it. And, in excluding your understanding that further hipsterizes the hipster. It’s a tricky web, this hipster thing!):
MY HUSBAND IS COOLER THAN ME.
Oh, the hipster humanity.
I am now off to Dollar General to buy some large, ugly, plastic glasses with black frames. Every time a person buys a pair, a hipster gets his wings.