Headspace Frugality

So my wife was talking to me this morning, which is almost always a bad idea.

I was scraping egg crust from the a cast iron pan and my eyes were open which is just about all I can handle at one time, so I was aware of her speaking, but I was only vaguely aware that she was speaking to me, and there was something going on about clothes. The subject of fashion is a leading indicator that no matter the importance, my personal involvement is going to be near absolute zero.

But her tone adjusted slightly . . . pivoted really . . . to the "I need your input/attention/bigstrongarmstoopenthepicklejar" kind of tone, and I had to immediately recalibrate my focus so as to try and figure out a way not to make her start from the beginning.

". . . your good shorts." she said.

"I um what?" I said back.

"You can wear your good shorts to the party on Sunday."

"Oh, yeah, of course . . . wait . . . what good shorts? I . . . really . . . honestly . . . have no idea that I had those . . . and if I do . . . I have no idea which ones they are."

She . . . because she is magic and impossibly forgiving . . . didn't miss a beat . . . went into the closet and pulled out my good shorts to show me.

She wasn't disappointed in me at all, for it was 7:36am and we were talking about clothes. She just wanted to make sure that I don't wear those particular shorts between now and Sunday.

She knows my strengths and weaknesses and is for some reason okay with them.

We sat down to a nice breakfast of coffee and frittatas while the nine year old made a valiant attempt to spoon three bites of cream of wheat into his mouth.

The 'cream of wheat' thing came upon us suddenly a few weeks ago. For some reason he was really desperate to try it because the kid down the street says it's great (another reason why children shouldn't have friends), and despite my remarks to the contrary (for I loathe the tasteless paste) I gave in and got him a box.

The experiment was what I call a "A Two-Thirds Success"

See . . . for some reason . . . he is absolutely keen on trying things. He's pretty much game for anything and his ratio of things that he likes to things that he doesn't, is actually so high I don't even measure it any longer.

He won't eat stuff with onions.

That's about it.

The second measure of success is whether he'll ask for it again. And that has about a fifty fifty ratio.

For instance, he won't eat fried eggs, but he will gobble down scrambled eggs.

That's not that weird.

But he didn't eat any of the eggs I made him yesterday, so when he asked for scrambled eggs this morning, I told him no and that he can have pancakes and then he asked if he could have cream of wheat instead.

But he wanted to limit the quantity.

Quantity is the final measure of success. Any quantity of 200 or more calories is the goal. Any less and I might as well be feeding a squirrel.

He got close with the hot cereal this morning. Which is a valiant effort as far as I'm concerned, but it was weird watching someone nibble small spoonfuls of the gelatinous goo.

My childhood mornings were spent trying to gobble it so quickly that it never touched my tongue.

Different Strokes.

Anyway, I stopped watching him eat because it was grossing me out, and the subject turned back to to clothing and something something something about a blouse.

The tone pivoted again.

"You know . . . that really nice button up blouse I've got."

"Oh . . . right . . . yeah . . . no . . . no . . . I still have no idea what you're talking about."

"The mint green blouse!"

That one popped my awareness. I actually do know that blouse, because, and this is really funny, because I only know two things about fashion:

Comfortability.

And what my wife looks really sexy in.

That sounds so guy-ish, but it's really all I got the headspace for. And I, unfortunately, do not do a very good impression of a gay best friend.

I am, in absolutely no way, interested or excited about new clothes.

I am also very specific about what I think looks good. Form fitting (to show it off), tapered waist (to elongate the torso), spring colors (to brighten everyone's day).

If I'm being asked on my opinion about anything that doesn't meet those three requirements, I have only one question:

Is it comfortable?

Cause if it is, then screw everything else.

I haven't wavered in fifteen years.

Not a jot.

Yet every season the racks are just filled with drab, lazy earth tones, and blouses that flair out from just under the boob line like mini waist high moo-moos.

It's like every girl in the world wants to feel tall and thin, and yet clothes are still designed to make them look short and dumpy.

But not the mint green one that she was asking about. That one's totally sexy.

Which is why it caught my attention, and eventually leads us to the point of this story.

See, there's only a limited amount of brain you have and it unfortunately gets even more limited as you go along. Hopefully, each day you get to add a little more to your repertoire without breaking the bank. So to speak.

Today I learned that it is possible to concentrate on more than just scraping egg crust off a cast iron pan while keeping my eyes open. I learned the exact amount of cream of wheat my son is going to eat and to make sure to include a few slices of bacon or fruit next time. I learned which of my shorts are the good shorts and I learned that my wife is going to be home late because she needs to find a pair of capris pants to go with her sexy mint green blouse. I also learned, after a quick Google search, that the flared blouses that make girls look short and dumpy are called Peasant Blouses and variations.

I did not learn if she needed the capris for dinner with friends on Friday, or for the family gathering on Sunday. I did not learn which shirt I'm supposed to wear with my good shorts. I did not learn why girls buy pleasant blouses.

Cause there's only so much room up there.

And there's always tomorrow.