How long does it take a woman to have a sense of style? More to the point, how long does it take a woman to subliminally select clothes for the men in her life? Apparently, just over two years.
Here’s how the story goes…
Like most people who live in the Greater Toronto Area, my family and I hit up the Ex this year. For those unfamiliar, the Ex is Toronto’s County Fair. Rides are brought in, Midway games are set up and chatchki vendors from parts unknown come to sell their wares.
I hate the Ex. For one, the rides scare the hell out of me. I don’t trust anything that can be broken down and built back up again in a matter of minutes by people that aren’t engineers, to say the least.
I also prefer my food to be prepared by people who aren’t smoking or toothless.
You can call me an elitist if you want to. That’s OK with me. I’ll sleep just fine knowing that my kid wasn’t the one projected from a merry-go-round due to faulty equipment.
Despite my reservations, we go nearly every year. It’s a bit of a tradition ’round these parts and we want Pea to experience the “magic” for herself. This was her second trip to the Ex.
One of the things I seem to get every year is a hat. This isn’t by design. It just seems to happen. This year was no exception. Here’s a shot of the hat I bought:
I like this hat. Obviously. I bought it. After the Ex, I waited patiently for my first opportunity to wear the hat outside of the house. That opportunity came this past Sunday when I took Pea to her swimming lesson.
While my wife took care of feeding Pea breakfast, I rushed upstairs to get our swimming things together. Because I don’t typically shower before jumping in a pool of water, I needed a hat – my new hat – to cover my haywire hair. I threw the hat on, looked in the mirror, gave myself a wink and the guns, and ran downstairs to leave for the lesson.
Pea first saw me in my new hat halfway down the stairs. She stopped me mid-step.
“Dad,” she said. “Are you driving a train?”
“What’s that sweetie,” I replied?
“Are you driving a train?”
She was referring to my conductors hat. Apparently, I look like the guy from Thomas the Tank Engine in my new hat.
Pea never really let on as to whether or not the hat looks good on me. She merely planted the seed of self-doubt and self-consciousness that will undoubtedly lead me to never wear the hat again.
Ah, the complicated life of a fashionista.