“It’s happened,” my husband Chris tells me solemnly one afternoon as we’re standing in the kitchen packing for a picnic.
He glances at me sheepishly. Pushes the picnic basket aside and hoists his tennis shoe up onto the countertop, slowly pulling up his pant leg to reveal his ankle like some sort of Victorian bride.
My eyes widen. “Black socks?”
He nods. “The only thing left would be the sandals,” he says sadly, putting his leg back down.
“But why?” is all I can think to ask.
He shrugs, putting a few napkins into the picnic basket. “They’re actually quite comfortable.”
My husband and I had been worrying about this day. We made a pact, when we were about 25, that we were not going to do “old people” things. We were always going to dress cool, talk cool, be cool. We were not going to wear elastic-waist jeans or colored socks. We were going to be hip. Forever.
Our plan began slipping, of course, only a few years later, when we began approaching our 30s. Continue reading