Cross-dressing, kind of

In the past two weeks, I have doubled my wardrobe with an influx of tees, button-down dress shirts, sweaters and hoodies. Oh, and a super-cool suede jacket. Some really nice stuff, and it’s all mine.

See, when you get married, one of the vows is “What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours.” At least, I think that’s one of the vows. I don’t remember much about my wedding other than the minister’s “woman submits to man” speech, which was included despite Paul’s adamant opposition beforehand. I don’t do the submission thing; just because you can pee standing up doesn’t make you a demi-god.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong about the “What’s yours is mine” vow. But, come on, when the minister asks, “Do you take this man…,” isn’t he really asking, “Do you take this man and his tees, button-down dress shirts, sweaters and hoodies…”? Oh, and the suede jacket. Don’t forget the suede jacket.

Paul and I already share a lot of tees, and we have for years. For example, we bought four Final Four shirts leading up to this weekend’s game. Today I am wearing the one he wanted to wear, but it doesn’t matter – he has three others from which to choose. On our honeymoon in Disney World almost six years ago, we bought matching shirts featuring Grumpy of Snow White fame. One day, I realized I hadn’t seen my Grumpy shirt in a while … and noticed Paul was wearing his Grumpy shirt twice as often … and one plus one equaled, “You stole my shirt, you jerk!”

He makes this hard-to-resist face when he knows he’s guilty – the “Who me? But I’m so cute!” look.

Anyway, turnabout is fair play, so I've appropriated some of his stuff as my own. My reasoning:

• I have lost 10 pounds in three weeks and deserve “new” clothes.
  
• Paul doesn’t wear much other than the same six tees and jeans, most of which have laboratory-related acid holes here and there.
  
• He’s about to become a uniformed man, so he doesn’t need a huge wardrobe.
  
• Once I've added some feminine accessories, his shirts look decent on me.
  
• I go to bed after him and wake up two hours earlier, so he doesn’t know I’ve pilfered his shirts until it’s too late and I’m walking out the door.

Oh! And:

• He stole my Grumpy shirt and wore it until it hit that tipping point of “This really shouldn’t be used for anything other than dusting furniture.” (Reduce, reuse, refuse to throw shirts away.)

I’ve never been much of a clotheshorse – and I find shopping for clothes almost as loathsome as the “woman submits to man” speech – so I’m delighted that his half of the closet is now first-come-first-serve. And I take great pride knowing I'm saving precious natural resources by drastically cutting how often I do laundry.

I’m also dutifully attempting to fulfill the “What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours” marital vow. Unfortunately, Paul doesn’t seem interested in wearing my clothes – word on the street is that menswear looks good on women, but not the other way around – so I’ve had to modify the vow a bit: What’s his is mine and what’s mine is mine, too. Even the suede jacket.