A Vow to Have and to Hold, in Good Taste and in Bad

My husband has a woman friend who is unconventionally beautiful. She’s 6 feet tall and statuesque.

Every time we see her, she is fabulously decked out--long skirts, ethnic sweaters, twirled hair. She continues to surprise us with her choices.

They are both designers and appreciate fabrics, colors, lines, textures, patterns. When my husband sees a color that I think is new, he says, “Oh, that is so winter 1998.”

My point, exactly.

In their world, visuals matter in an artistic, creative, wonderful way.

If my husband were a woman, he wouldn’t leave the house without first checking his pumps, purse, pantyhose and earrings.

He would be able to walk into a boutique and find the perfect necklace.

A former football player, my husband is often taken for a softball coach until people notice the sideburns and the way the shirt is just so.

Unfortunately, he is married to a newspaperwoman. In my world, if you put lipstick on straight and your slip doesn’t show, you are considered a babe.

It might be because most of us spent the early part of our careers making about $14,000 a year. And in high school, when everyone else was experimenting with mascara and high heels, we were studying House Judiciary Committee trends. At least I was.

On our first date, my husband wore a yellow shirt and red pants. I wore a short dress and shoes that can only be described as schoolmarmish.

We almost didn’t have a second date.

When it became apparent that things were quite serious--at about week three--he told me he could not live another minute with my choice of shoes.

For 10 minutes I was crushed and told him that he was controlling, on the verge of being abusive. Then I thought about so many of our married friends--couples in which the woman continually monitors the man’s dress choices. As in: “You are not leaving the house in that sweater,” “Change your socks,” “Here’s my hairdresser’s name. Call her.”

If I were truly a feminist, why wasn’t my husband’s declaration OK?

I used to think that we were both artists, just in different ways. That no world was more creative than the newspaper one in which manufacturing met writing every day of the year. Then, one day I sat in a meeting about what time the presses were going to start running and what time the last page had to be turned in.

The same day, he sat in a meeting about a theme park ride, and the question discussed with equal urgency was whether the corpse should have skin on it. It shouldn’t.

I threw in the towel.

He began to buy me shoes.

We married.

I’d like to say we lived fashionably ever after. But honestly, times have changed. He is more concerned about our children’s well-being and whether the roof leaks than how my shoes look.

As in all good marriages, I have made efforts to meet him halfway. I try to throw out sweaters that have holes in their sleeves. I wear lipstick at home. And I splurge twice a year and go to Old Navy--just for myself.

He still wears fabulous colors, mixing and matching with a talent we both know I will never achieve.

My closet is now full of wonderful shoes. I still wear too much black, but, thanks to him, every once in awhile, I mix it in with a very occasional gray.