Two houses ago, our cool neighbors across the street would once in a while appear wearing the same shirt. Matching shirts, that is. Intentionally.
I’m pretty sure it was all her idea. She was of the suburban respectable Presbyterian variety. He was improbably handsome, with a bad-boy vibe, not the type to embrace identical flannel shirts for an afternoon of apple-picking. They did divorce after a few years. Maybe the shirts were the tipping point.
I’m continually trying to avoid showing up like a twin whose mother still buys everything in twos. Yet more times than I can tell you, I’ll emerge in the day’s ensemble after lengthy analysis, choice and rejection, choice and rejection, only to find My Guy is also wearing a blue sweater and tan pants, or the same shade of orange.
Yesterday it was a little grungy out, so we were on our way to a local quilt show followed by an early dinner to beat the high-season Florida crowds. (By the way, I think that’s the real reason people here eat at 4:30, not because they have to rush home for Wheel of Fortune and bed)
I’d recently scored a new long-sleeved top at Pennys and had been looking forward to wearing it until I found him in his painting room . . . .
That's me on the right.
(Even our freckled, spotty hands match.)