We were driving along California Highway 120, after Priest, but prior to Groveland. Absorbing the geography with all five senses in a manner common of people born in rural areas. Carefully memorizing changes in elevation, farming practices, and modern conveniences like grocery stores and fast food. Tourists in our own country. Simultaneously, we took notice of a small plot of golden poppies planted at the edge of rural post office. Even though the lunch hour was looming, performing a U-ee (U-turn) was the only option.

We turned around at the hand painted beef jerky sign, and returned to the post office to photograph the poppies. Somewhat taken aback by our rental car with out of state plates, a lovely tanned woman greeted us after we came to a complete stop, with myself carefully craning out the car window for shots of the flowers. She spoke with a friendly tone common in small towns, though rarer in larger cities, lest solicited.

She stood relaxed with hose nozzle in one hand, and garden gloves spilling out of her back pocket, mildly surprised at our interest in the small flower plot she tended. State flower, common as dandelions in my state, though how was I to know? Her surprise which instantly dissolved upon the initial note of southern twang in my accent.

She remarked the community was a small one, and the post office served as social center of the town, The flower plot, was her contribution to create a cozier atmosphere for locals to socialize. Evidence, if there is any doubt, small gestures matter.

Clothes shopping in person demands incentive or at the very least motivation. Ordering online requires less effort, and therefor no tranquilizer darts or heavy sedatives are necessary. Unfortunately it has the unfortunate side effect of routine trips to the post office to return ill-fitting garments and wait for replacements.

Physically entering shops, shuffling through racks of fabric I can’t visualize on my body, and actually trying on clothes is no more desirable than being chained to a waiting room chair next to a woman with a plastic bucket at her feet in a doctor’s office during flu season. I can be enticed into clothes shopping, but it typically involves a carefully honed strategy consisting of a pitcher of margaritas, and a messenger continually leaving clothes, before I can redress and escape to a mexican restaurant.

My husband seems to have mastered this strategy well. Although if you prompted him, he would probably respond this is not an issue of skill or strategy, but one of self-preservation. My utilitarian approach to clothing does not advance his masculine desire to go out on the town with arm candy in tow. I never have understood why hiking boots and cargo shorts or less sexy than spiked heels and a sun dress, but we all tend develop ideas of such things based on romanticism and practicality. Since functionality falls in step with pragmatism it’s no mystery that I am in the lower tenth percentile of the fashion inept. The end result of this philosophy means I am always dressed appropriately to change a flat tire, should the need arise. Again.

My most recent foray into clothes shopping was fueled by pragmatism, but of a different sort. I am currently backed into corner, by my own undoing. I may or may not need to attend a wedding next month, in which I may or may not need to appear somewhat presentable. By presentable, I mean not showing up in a frock that was fashionable when Madonna was smacking her chewing gum and sporting a pair of fingerless lace gloves.

I’d rather have a dress I don’t need than be forced to settle for a dress I don’t even like because I waited until the last possible minute to find one. This isn’t like my father-in-law’s funeral, when the better half and I were late because we had to make a last minute tie purchase at the low price leader because we left home without one.

So the over-prepared lobe of my brain kicked and insisted upon looking for a dress, and my partner was completely on board, though he was unaware of the purpose for the scavenger hunt in the first place. I think it was the role play that appealed most, the idea of my standing behind a thin curtain taking clothing off and putting clothing on, but mainly taking clothing off.

Most men, don’t have the patience, interest, much less the stamina required to shop with women, now that I think about it, I don’t either, but my partner seems to enjoy it. Then again maybe enjoyment doesn’t factor, maybe his attention span is better suited this kind of tediousness than mine. Granted he’s more obsessed with personal appearance than I am. I don’t mean in that vain, smile at myself as a pass a mirror way, but in that I don’t like the way the flaps on my cargo short pockets won’t stay neatly pressed, or the passive aggressive way he hoards all the nice hangers so none of his polo shirts develop shoulder nipples. All in all he’s the perfect chaperone to make sure I exit the store with a dress that actually fits, although he isn’t the most objective about helping me find a dress that doesn’t make me look like a prostitute or a teenager. Being completely unbiased can only take person so far, sooner or later we can’t help but develop our own agendas.

After three hours, three stores, and thirty-three wardrobe changes, we settled on three. I only wanted the one, only needed the one, but he was so damn pleased that I tried on more than one, he wanted all of them. Just what I need, more choices, and more pressure to dress in a non-utilitarian fashion, but choices are better than ultimatums. Besides If he’s escorting me, he should at least change the damn tire.

I’m writing to issue an overdue apology. As you are aware, I don’t express flowery sentiment for the benefit of lip service or under the pretense of earning a loftier position in your twisted inheritance pyramid scheme. The battery operated card shuffler you promised me after your passing will be a sufficient token.

Before you become over-excited by my humble declaration of improper behavior, I should clarify, that I am not apologizing for the time I laughed when my cousin-partner-in-crime called you a pretentious old fart to your face. He was correct, although it was a rebellious prepubescent flash in the pan observation. I am also not sorry I discontinued attending church services, failed to meet a man in church, or failed to marry in a church. If god exists and is omnipotent, he understands and doesn’t see the necessity in my clearing things with you.

As I was saying in paragraph one, the apology.

It would seem I committed an inexcusable breach of etiquette between the ages of three and four. You know the incident I am referring to; you’ve reminded me of it yearly since I was sixteen. Yes, that’s the one. That time I discovered the bottle of Oil of Olay on your make-up tray and asked if it was yours. After you acknowledged it, I asked if that was the cream designed to make you look younger, and you said it was. Then I told you not to waste any more money, it wasn’t working.

What can I say? I am the youngest of three, an unfortunate product of television as babysitter, pop-culture and insecurity based mass marketing. If society’s influence over impressionable children disturbs you, you know, write a letter to someone, or something.

I guess you’re probably wondering, why the sudden pang of guilt on my part? Well, I’m not dying , if that’s what you are thinking, well at least no faster than I should be… The thing is, since we moved to an area with lower humidity, for the first time in my life, I am suffering from dry skin. I mean, really WTF? So for the first time in my entire life, I am shopping for a fucking moisturizer. Do you know what the bottle says? Age defying. Age defying, my ass. I don’t look younger, I look like target with vanity issues and disposable income. Maybe, I do have some of your genes….

With love and christian kindness,

jaded

My body is limber. Limber for a woman my age, who doesn’t practice yoga with any degree of commitment. Which I’m pretty sure negates results. I can bend forward and palm the floor with my hands., yet my body lacks is the inherent ability to coordinate movements between limbs. Throwing, catching, returning a tennis ball? Short of enlisting FedUp to contract the service, its going to be ugly.

My shins? Typically, the skin tones are shades of blue gray or brownish yellow, signature trait of bananas left lounging on the kitchen counter too long. Thighs? Frequently used bumpers to protect the pelvis from bone to stationary contact. Yet in spite of this lack of grace, I manage to function with the daily assistance of ibuprofen. Muddling through life with the same sense of purpose shared by people less pampered than myself. Functionality magnified by a single mindedness to get things done.

My partner is the opposite. Lean body, sharp reflexes and the ability to coordinate complex series of movements. Not exactly step aerobics, but a natural athleticism accentuated by long limbs and unshakeable confidence, moving both deliberately and unhurriedly.

In a world that favors self-confidence, there are moments when it isn’t good to be him. This weekend he has an unusual run of bad luck.

Friday, I bit him getting out of the shower. I was wringing the last of the water out of my hair, when he handed me a towel, which I didn’t have a free hand to grasp. Reflexively, I opened my mouth to take the towel from him. He extended it to me, and I promptly bit his thumb, which I couldn’t see wrapped wrapped between the fabric layers. Oops.

That afternoon, playing a console game and he managed to torque his back driving a virtual golf ball on the eighteenth green. This after six months of a pain free back. That evening in the bar, a man seated next to him found him to be quite pretty, in a happy three beer I need someone to talk to about anything kind of way.

Saturday evening, tore it. I asked him to pick up a bottle of wine, while I completed dinner preparation. I didn’t anticipate he might return with an entire case. Bent over, yelling into the front door, “Can you help me with this?” Humbling, at least for him. He doesn’t ask for help, he gets defensive when you don’t anticipate he needs it.

This morning I heard him use the plunger handle to lift the lid, because bending at the waist is a non-starter. He’s going to have a long week, and by association, so will I.

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Pictures from the Yosemite trip can be found here.