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No room for cross dressing in a marriage

Sunday, June 4, 2006

HE SAID: "You can wear my pajamas, honey."

Oh, yeah. You read it right. Perhaps the six most feared words in the weekend trip vocabulary.

Callie and I had just made the 2-hour trip to Van Buren, Mo. It was a late Friday night, and we had just said our good-nights to Callie's parents. We were staying in my in-laws' camper outside their house, getting ready for bed.

Once again, Callie had packed for me. It was kind of a last-minute thing to leave Friday night, so I hadn't had much time (or clean laundry) to pack for myself, so my cute and talented wife had the pleasure. Callie and I are not good packers. And I learned several trips ago that I should not trust Callie to pack for me. I remember specifically one time I had to wear the deodorant that's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman. She left my clear stick at home in the bathroom cabinet.

So on that late Friday night inside the family's camper, perhaps it should not have come as a surprise when I started shuffling through our overnight bag and couldn't find a pair of pajamas, shorts or sweats.

"Callie!? Where's my pajamas?"

"Uh-oh."

I was struck with a choice. Sleep in nothing but undies, or borrow my wife's silk pajama bottoms that are more like fancy balloon pants that could be used in parachute emergencies. I can't believe I'm saying this. But I chose the pants, in all their shiny, golden glory.

For many years now, I haven't felt comfortable sleeping solely in my Fruit-of-the-Looms. I don't know why. Could have something to do with my ever-increasing body shape (which could serve, I suppose, as an emergency raft should Callie's pajamas guide us into the ocean.)

Once I tried them on, I was surprised at how well they fit. I suppose that says something about my wife's bed attire. If they fit over my rear end, you know she's not dressing for style.

I suppose it also says something about me, that I'd rather dress in girl's clothes than to go to bed in my underwear. But the ordeal came with an added bonus: Those things were comfortable! Silk pajamas rock!

Callie laughed like she hadn't laughed in a long time.

I slept well -- until, that is, I woke up and couldn't find Wilson, my friendly roll of toilet paper. But I've got to start packing for myself. Next time, Callie might forget to pack underwear ... .

SHE SAID: For once, I'm kinda at a loss here.

I mean, what do you say after something like that? Maybe there's a support group out there for this type of situation.

"Hello, my name is Callie, and my husband wears my silk pajama bottoms."

Well, maybe "wears" is exaggerated. He wore them. But he seemed to like it, so now I'm keeping a close eye on his PJ choices.

I know all you husbands out there are grimacing at this, but you gotta understand. I've forgotten to pack T-shirts. I've forgotten socks. I've forgotten his asthma inhaler. I've forgotten his toothbrush and his shoes. By now, why in the world isn't he packing for himself?

There is one good thing that has come out of this. I know just what to get him for his birthday.

bmiller@semissourian.com

335-6611, extension 122

cmiller@semissourian.com

335-6611, extension 128


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