My Loving Commando

I don't think I can get used to it. Hubby's "new look."

He very patiently took me shopping for little things this week. As we neared the men's clothing section, I suggested (for the fiftieth time that day) that he at least LOOK at the shorts. He badly needed shorts. He owned four pairs of shorts, all of which are fit only for the dumpster, but getting him to shop is harder than getting him to talk...

So I was delighted to discover him digging through shorts that were priced at $14.97, and actually trying them on. He tried on, oh, maybe SIX pairs! This is some kind of record...

And he bought two pairs of shorts. One, a nice khaki color, cargo style.

But the other pair is... well ....

Camoflage.

That's right - Camo.

He came out of the dressing room with these on, and I think he said something like "these are comfy". I didn't hear him.

My husband was wearing camo.

Where did this come from? Had the man I married been substituted while he slept for an alien? The fairies, they say, used to play tricks like that on mortals. In my case, it's more likely to have been trolls...

"What's the matter?" he asked me.

"They're camoflage," I squeaked.

"Yeah. ... And?"

"And... well, they're... camo!" I said helplessly.

He rolled his eyes and headed for the cash.

"Let me get this straight," I said, running to catch up to him. "You don't approve of hunting, right?"

"That's right," he said.

"Good, good," I said, grasping for the next idea. "And you still favour keeping guns out of ordinary people's hands, right?"

"Of course," he said.

"And you'd prefer if military force was truly used as a last option, right?"

"Yeah," he said, "What's your point?"

"Well," I said, flustered, "why on God's green earth do you want to wear CAMO?"

He shrugged. Just then, a young man brushed past us. His hair was unkempt, his cap on backwards. He had two tattoos showing through the holes in his t-shirt. He walked slouching. And he was wearing camo shorts - the very same shorts my husband had draped over his arm.

"Because," I said, pointing, "THAT'S what camo wearers look like!"

Hubby just gave me one of his "what-do-you-expect-me-to-do" looks and paid for the shorts.

Today, he took me out to see a movie. Wearing the camo shorts.

People looked.

I couldn't meet their gaze. I saw what they saw. A honking great bug hulk of a man, with shaved head, wearing camo shorts.

Oh yeah, nobody blocked our way. I wanted to scream at them - "It's not real! It's just a phase! He's not really bald, either, he just trimmed recently and the rest of his hair is grey! He's really quite intelligent!"

But I held my breath and dropped my eyes. I tried to get him to let go of my hand so I could walk behind him, but he was feeling happy and affectionate, so my hand stayed in his grip.

But what does it MEAN? Has Hubby finally decided it's time to crawl back DOWN the evolutionary ladder? Is he going to come home with an earring? A - gasp! - a tattoo? A - shock! - a BAD ATTITUDE?!!!!!

Perhaps I've finally pushed him over the edge. His humanity will slip away like sand through the fingers. I'll wake up one day to find his teeth also gone, tatoos covering his back, an empty bottle of whiskey by the bed and cigarette stubs on the floor. My hair will be long, tattered, and a dreadful bottle blonde. We'll be living in a trailer, and our dog will be a pit bull. We'll have a beat-up old pickup truck outside and motors and engines in varying stages of disrepair littering the ground. When I ask him a question he'll yell at me, and if I speak my mind he'll clobber me one, then clobber the dog for good measure. And there will be a Smith & Weston (whatever that is) somewhere. If it's a rifle, it'll be on the top of the fridge, which is where he puts everything now. If it's small, it'll be in the glove compartment of the pickup. And my life will be shortened considerably, since he'll put me in an early grave for bein' "uppity".

Hubby understands none of this, of course. He likes his new shorts. They're comfortable.

S h u d d e r r r r r r r r r r......