I promised a lot of things when I got married—for better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish until death do us part.
But there were two things that I wouldn’t promise. One was to Obey (“What, am I your dog?” was what I think I said…), and the other was never to Dress Like Twins.
C’mon, you know. You’ve seen them. The couples who dress alike when they go out—all the way down to the same color-coordinated shirts, same color pants, and even the same hats. Whether they sport baseball, cowboy, or Gilligan-style hats, you see them coming from a mile away.
I like that my husband and I don’t look alike…all the way down to our clothes. And I know why some couples do it. Because that way they can find each other if they get lost in a crowd.
I would rather tie myself to my husband with a boat rope. Sure, we’d look nuts, but then people would think that we were just that—completely nuts. Not just unimaginative or totally paranoid. If you lose your spouse in a crowd, that’s what your cell phones are for.
There have been times, I’ll admit, where we’ve accidentally dressed alike. But we’ve rectified the matter before leaving the house.
Usually what will happen is one of us will get dressed and go downstairs while the other is in the shower. Then the counterpart comes down wearing the same “Huey Lewis and the News” concert shirt.
This is when the stand-off begins.
“One of us is changing, and it’s not going to be me,” I say.
“But I was ready first,” my husband responds.
“First only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,” I say. Uh, or is that “close.”
Anyway, “I just put on makeup and fixed my hair. I am so not changing my shirt.”
My husband now jokes that he doesn’t even try for a stand-off. He runs upstairs and changes. So even though we’ve had a few close calls, we’ve never dressed alike.
Until one memorable day years ago, pre-pandemic…
That was the day that I became what I despise—one half of a twin couple. We didn’t plan it (you can bet on that!). Heck, we didn’t even notice it until someone at our bank pointed it out to us.
The worst part was, while our T-shirts matched, they were different colors; that’s why we didn’t notice. What we also didn’t notice was the huge red cross in the center of each shirt. Yup, we were both wearing Red Cross T-Shirts—his gray, mine Army green.
“I can’t believe we didn’t notice,” I lamented.
“Really?” said the bank guy. “That’s the first thing I noticed when you came in.”
Oh. My. God…
We had walked through the grocery store to get to our bank branch at the back of it. Who else had seen us? Who? Who?
“Calm down,” said my twin. “No one cares. Trust me.”
So I did. Trusted him, I mean.
We decided to go out to dinner at our favorite local restaurant. It’s low-lit, and I figured that no one would notice.
The owner, whom we’ve known for years, came over and greeted us. “Hey, nice to see you again,” he said. Then he paused. “What’s with the shirts? Did you two help with Katrina?”
Great. Now not only do we look alike, but people will mistake us for volunteers who selflessly gave of their time and effort to help those recovering from the hurricane. And we didn’t. But at least we were both in the same boat, right? We were both non-volunteers.
Then my husband opened his mouth.
“I got this for giving blood,” he said enthusiastically.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it…
“In fact, I got the one that she’s wearing too.”
He said it. Now, not only did I not volunteer to help with the Katrina aftermath, but I was also the one of us who didn’t even have to sacrifice any bodily fluids for the good of mankind.
I was the sham in a Red Cross T-Shirt.
From now on, we will do a clothing check before ever leaving the house—whether we’re in a rush or not. We will never again be twins.
And that’s a promise.
Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not paranoid about what she’s wearing, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning humor book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.
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