I Think He Was Looking For Feminine

I suspended my loathing of ruffles and frills long enough to let Mom explain the saccharine blouses.

"We were Christmas shopping." She spread the hideous garments on the bed, forcing me to look at them. "I told Dad we needed to keep our eyes open for something you could wear with the black suspender pants."

"Plain," I reminded her. "I wanted something plain, with no collar." After years of making clothes that I liked, I knew she remembered the no collars, no frills rules.

She gave me her one-eye roll, usually reserved for children who were annoying but not gruesome enough for the two-eye roll. "He looked through every rack in Fashion Shop, chose these three, and wanted to know which I thought you'd like best." Both eyes open now and locked in place, the intensity of her stare begged forgiveness. "I said you wouldn't like any of them."

"So you bought all three?"

"These aren't your Christmas gifts."

Years of Christmases, anniversaries, and birthdays crowded disappointment out of first place in my growing collection of emotions. Dad did not choose gifts. He left that task to Mom, unless the gift was for her and then he took one of us to make the important decision. I tried to imagine him sliding hangers across racks, comparing blouses, and picturing them on me. It was like plugging Hoss Cartwright in June Cleaver's role. Why me? Why had he gone completely out of character on me?

I picked up the solid white blouse and shuddered. "Mom, this has ruffles on top of ruffles. It looks like something a clown would wear."

She laughed. "It probably looks better on."

I dropped it back on the bed, refusing to touch the others. The red blouse made my head ache. The second white one might have been tolerable without the pink-flowered trim on the tuxedo pleats.

"The pleated one is my favorite." She must have read my mind. "I think it would look nice with the cummerbund waist on the pants."

The Nehru collar did look less torturous than the clown ruffles or the tall, red collar with two extra buttons on the neck, guaranteed to interfere with swallowing. "If I choose one, will that satisfy him?"

"Probably. You like the pleated one?"

"Why is this important to him?" I huffed, turned away from the painful display on the bed. "He hates to wear a tie. Why would he want me to have this crap on my neck?"

"I doubt he thought about collars," she said. "I think he was looking for feminine. You'll have to ask him if you want an explanation."

"I don't want to hurt his feelings."

She graced me with more eye action, this time delivering a rhetorical question. But you want me to do it for you?

"I'll wear the pink flowers." I did not say I would leave the house, or even that it would be in this lifetime. She seemed pleased when I snatched up the three blouses and left the room.

I softened by Christmas and wore the red blouse with a black skirt. Dad, short as ever on flattery, said I looked nice. I choked a thanks past the buttons on my collar and wondered what kind of nice he had in mind. Beautiful nice? Daddy's little girl nice? Virginal nice? Or thoughtful enough to wear miserable, ugly clothes to spare someone's feelings nice?

I would have bet a week of extra chores that one box under the tree held a plain, no-collar top that begged to be worn tucked behind the cummerbund on New Year's Eve. I would have lost that bet. Disappointed, mostly in myself for having selfish expectations, I put my Christmas gifts away, still wondering what I would wear with the suspender pants.

My date arrived early on New Year's Eve, but I was prepared. I sat on the couch; coat zipped to my neck to cover the pink flowers on my ruffled blouse, hoping our host had decided to move the party outdoors so I would have an excuse to keep the coat on all night.

Dad walked us to the door and recited the usual have fun, be good, call if you need me spiel in a distracted tone. "Where's your car?" he added at the end.

"My dad dropped me off," the date said. "I thought we'd walk."

I looked from Dad's questioning brow to the date's anxious weight shift to his escape leg. "That sounds good," I said. "It isn't far."

Together, we convinced Dad to put his keys back in his pocket and go inside. I promised to call him for a ride when the party was over.

When we stopped at the shopping center to scrape ice from the soles of our shoes, I decided the definition of far depended on temperature. One mile at zero was farther than three miles at seventy. We moved fast, stomped to remove snow and activate blood flow, wiped our noses, held hands to stay warm and keep from falling, and told each other it was fun.

I appreciated our host for keeping the party inside, and his parents for the crackling logs in the fireplace and hot chocolate. I forgave our friends for laughing when my date's icy shoe caused him to make a grand entrance on his ass. I remain grateful to the date for providing that moment of hysteria in which I could remove my coat and not feel as though every eye in the room was on the pink-flowered pleats.

Most of all, I will never forget when he recovered, looked over at me, and said, "You look nice." That fast, I forgot to question nice. I wore the pink-flowered blouse to school on the first day back after Christmas break, and the clown collar the next.