E and I have often criticized each other’s wardrobe with the same sharp tongue as an editor during Fashion Week.

E referred to one dress as the Wilma Flintstone dress. It was a vintage, red and black number that buttoned up all the way to the neck. The hemline hit at mid-shin. It accentuated my waist, but little else. “It’s not flattering,” he says. “It looks like something from the 1950s. You have great curves and that does not show them off.”

Another one, a vintage, kimono style brown and pink housedress, also evokes pain. “Can I burn it?” E has asked often.

He’s even created the Dress Exchange Program, where he’s offered to buy me a new dress in exchange for permission to toss one he doesn’t like from my closet. He’s bought me two dresses so far. I handed over the Wilma Flintstone, but I am hanging on to the kimono dress.

I too have objections to some of his clothing. E owns a sleeveless shirt, and for some reason, he thinks it’s appropriate to wear to the office. “It’s Rick Owens!” he says. I don’t care. I hate that t-shirt. No man should flaunt his armpits unless he’s at the beach. Including Mr. Owens. It’s tacky.

As much as we may object to these pieces of clothing, neither one of us would tell the other to change. Let’s be real–in our mid 30s, neither one of us are changing. We love each other for who we are, and our ridiculous items of clothing.

Before rushing to the tents again, I made egg and pancetta sandwiches, only because I was craving fried eggs and pancetta was something I hadn’t used on a sandwich yet. E and I wolfed them down before he got into the shower and got dressed for work.

When I saw him later, he had on that loathsome black sleeveless shirt, layered under a down vest, a scarf, and boots. His bare arms were exposed, but everything else was bundled up for a crisp fall night.

“A sleeveless shirt with a vest and a scarf? Why not just wear sleeves?”
He looked at me with spite. “You have a point. I’ll retire it until next summer.”

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