Bras in the breeze...

You know you've had a long day, when you answer the door with the bra you were taking off, hanging out from underneath your shirt because you only took one arm out when you were taking it off with out removing your shirt. (Ladies, I know that you know what I'm talking about) Yup, just a-waving in the breeze as I talk to the church people who knock on my door. I'm tired.

I'm still, just a girl.

Getting out of the house in generally harder than doing what you plan to do once you actually get out of the house. There are a thousand false starts.

There's the "Who has the keys?" - "You had them" - "No, I gave them to you" drama, which is always fun.

There's the "Did you leave the answering machine on?" - "Um, it's not working" - "What do you mean it's not working, let me see" one act play.

And the ever-popular, "Is it going to be cold later?" - "What am I, a weatherman? Just take a jacket and lets go" cartoon.

That is one my husband particularly enjoys--the jacket dilemma. I, though a remarkably intelligent woman, refuse to accept that the weather at the end of the day is often going to be different than it is when I left the house. I become a child. "I'm not taking a jacket. I'll be fine." Which then relegates my husband into the "Just-take-it-and-throw-it-into-the-car-what-the-hell-is-the-big-deal" role.

But there are two opposing forces at work here. I don't want to take a jacket for vanity reasons. It's a wardrobe issue. The sweater doesn't go with anything and it makes me look bulky, so I would rather freeze than look bulky and clash my outfit. (only on special occasions do I actually care about this.)

He, on the other hand, has his own interest in mind. Because he knows that later, when I'm cold, he's going to have to do the Gentleman Thing of taking off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders, for which I will love him and he will resent me deeply.

Understand: If we were caught in a surprise hail storm, or the country was invaded and we had to flee suddenly with only what we had on, he would have no problem. He would give me his jacket instinctively. Sure, he would freeze, but he would be a hero. He'd be getting something out of it. You see?

But here, we have a choice. It's not hailing. We are not fleeing. We're standing in front of a closet with a myriad of jackets and sweaters and coats and protective gear for every potential five-degree variance--but no, "I'll be fine," I say.

So we go. And of course, later, it's freezing, and I'm huddling in his jacket, and he, who knew to bring a jacket, is wearing no jacket. And the kicker is: It's not like his jacket looks so good on me anyway. It probably looks worse than the whatever jacket of my own I would have put on. But somehow it's ok, because people know what's going on. They won't judge me. When you see a woman with a wildly mismatched jacket draped over her shoulders, you never say, "Boy, what was she thinking? That doesn't go at all." You'll say, "Wow, isn't he sweet? Look how he sacrificed his own jacket for her."

And what he's thinking is, "I'm such a schmuck. I'm a schmuck, and I'm freezing. I actually thought this through. I planned ahead, and I'm still freezing."