A couple of weeks ago, Keith and I went to Pittsburgh to do some house hunting. I like to dress up a little bit when I look at houses. First of all, I like to look like I could afford to buy a house. Much of the time I still dress like a student because I am one. When I dress like a student, I do not look like I can afford to buy a house. I barely look like I can afford Ramen. Second, I don't get out of the house too much anymore, so I try to look good when I do. Finally, I know that I was usually circling the neighborhood or sitting in my next door neighbor's house when people were looking at our house. This served two purposes: 1.) I could go home as soon as they left, instead of staying out of the house for the full 1-2 hour window, and 2.) I could spy on them. Spying gave us an idea if someone was a serious house-buying candidate (the people who we are in contract with looked promising - they appeared to be empty-nesters and stood across the street from our house for a few minutes pointing and talking).
I packed a dress to go house hunting, but came down with a virus the day before we left for Pittsburgh. Therefore, I decided that I wanted to dress comfortably rather than fashionably. I had been ambitious when I was packing, hence the dress. But when we woke up at Keith's parents' house that morning, ready to depart for the Burgh, a dress was the last thing that I wanted to put on my feverish, aching body. The only other thing that I packed, however, was a pair of goucho exercise pants. I didn't even have a t-shirt to wear with the pants (I had a t-shirt, but Gwen spit up on it the night before - I am willing to go house-hunting in a t-shirt, just not one covered in spit up). I asked Keith if he could acquire a shirt for me from his closet.
Keith's closet, in his parents' home, is a treasure trove of t-shirts and sweatshirts memorializing events in his life. There are several firefighting t-shirts (departments that he has worked at and training that he has undergone), cross-country t-shirts, race t-shirts, and miscellaneous t-shirts. He keeps more t-shirts at his parents house than I own, period. I asked him to grab a shirt for me since I tend to choose the wrong shirts. He is quite particular about what different t-shirts can be used for. Some are work shirts. Some are sleeping/lounging shirts. Some are nice t-shirts. I, inevitably, pick out the "nice" t-shirt to wear to bed, to which Keith asks me to change so I don't stretch out the neck (I don't know how I would stretch out the neck, but this is a common complaint of his; also, I can't tell the difference between his sleeping and nice t-shirts, as they all look the same to me). So Keith tromped up the stairs to get a t-shirt and to save me from my poor packing.
A couple of minutes later, Keith reappeared with a gray t-shirt. There is nothing wrong with gray t-shirts, but I was going to wear gray goucho pants. Here is how the conversation unfolded:
Keith: Here's your t-shirt.
Sara: It's gray.
Keith: Yeah.
Sara: I'm going to wear gray pants.
Keith: I know. It will match.
Sara: No, you can't wear gray with gray.
Keith: Why not?
Sara: If they are just the slightest bit different in the type of gray they will clash instead of match.
Keith: But it might match perfectly.
Sara: That would be even worse!
Keith: I don't understand.
Sara: It would be too matchey-matchey. It would be like wearing denim with denim (what my friend Nate used to call a Canadian Tuxedo). Or like wearing one of those matching top and slack combinations that your grandma buys from Macy's.
Keith: *Blank Stare*
Then he went back up the stairs and brought me a red t-shirt.
I packed a dress to go house hunting, but came down with a virus the day before we left for Pittsburgh. Therefore, I decided that I wanted to dress comfortably rather than fashionably. I had been ambitious when I was packing, hence the dress. But when we woke up at Keith's parents' house that morning, ready to depart for the Burgh, a dress was the last thing that I wanted to put on my feverish, aching body. The only other thing that I packed, however, was a pair of goucho exercise pants. I didn't even have a t-shirt to wear with the pants (I had a t-shirt, but Gwen spit up on it the night before - I am willing to go house-hunting in a t-shirt, just not one covered in spit up). I asked Keith if he could acquire a shirt for me from his closet.
Keith's closet, in his parents' home, is a treasure trove of t-shirts and sweatshirts memorializing events in his life. There are several firefighting t-shirts (departments that he has worked at and training that he has undergone), cross-country t-shirts, race t-shirts, and miscellaneous t-shirts. He keeps more t-shirts at his parents house than I own, period. I asked him to grab a shirt for me since I tend to choose the wrong shirts. He is quite particular about what different t-shirts can be used for. Some are work shirts. Some are sleeping/lounging shirts. Some are nice t-shirts. I, inevitably, pick out the "nice" t-shirt to wear to bed, to which Keith asks me to change so I don't stretch out the neck (I don't know how I would stretch out the neck, but this is a common complaint of his; also, I can't tell the difference between his sleeping and nice t-shirts, as they all look the same to me). So Keith tromped up the stairs to get a t-shirt and to save me from my poor packing.
A couple of minutes later, Keith reappeared with a gray t-shirt. There is nothing wrong with gray t-shirts, but I was going to wear gray goucho pants. Here is how the conversation unfolded:
Keith: Here's your t-shirt.
Sara: It's gray.
Keith: Yeah.
Sara: I'm going to wear gray pants.
Keith: I know. It will match.
Sara: No, you can't wear gray with gray.
Keith: Why not?
Sara: If they are just the slightest bit different in the type of gray they will clash instead of match.
Keith: But it might match perfectly.
Sara: That would be even worse!
Keith: I don't understand.
Sara: It would be too matchey-matchey. It would be like wearing denim with denim (what my friend Nate used to call a Canadian Tuxedo). Or like wearing one of those matching top and slack combinations that your grandma buys from Macy's.
Keith: *Blank Stare*
Then he went back up the stairs and brought me a red t-shirt.
No comments:
Post a Comment