ISO a sister wife

Sometimes every decisive bone in my body leaves me and I can’t make up my mind about things. Not big things, but little things. Like what to have for dinner. Or if I should go for a run. Or what to wear. On those occasions, I need a judge. Someone who will say, decisively, "Chicken. Yes. Black pants."

Such an indecisive moment came last Thursday night, when I was getting dressed to go out to dinner for a friend’s birthday. I stood, wrapped in a towel, surveying my closet for a full ten minutes before giving up and pulling on the old standby, a "safe" dress that’s really comfortable.

Me to Whit: So? How do I look?

Whit, barely glancing up from his iPhone: Fine.

I sigh and start taking off the dress.

Whit: What’s wrong with the dress?

Me: It’s "fine."

Whit rolls his eyes. This is an old argument, and he knows better than to defend the use of the f-word.

I look through my closet again.

Me: Hmmm...dress, or jeans and a sequined top?

Whit: Jeans.

Me: Boots?

Whit: Sure. Boots.

Me: Brown or black? Inside the jeans or outside?

Whit: Geez, I don’t know. Outside?

Me: The dark dark dark jeans or the dark dark ones?

Whit: I’m not even answering that.

Me, clattering down the stairs, out the front door, and barging into my neighbor’s kitchen: Does this (indicate my entire body) work?

Neighbor: No. Hold on. Did you shave your armpits?

She runs upstairs and gets an adorable sleeveless shirt. I whip off the sequined top and put on her shirt.

Her dog starts barking.

Whit is standing at her front door, threatening to go to the restaurant without me.

"Oh, for God’s sake. I’m COMING."

I run outside.

Whit: Nope.

Me: Damnit!

I text the birthday girl. “Dress I always wear, or jeans and a cute top?”

She texts back “dress.”

I run up the stairs taking off the borrowed shirt.

Whit shakes his head at me, pours a glass of wine and turns on the TV.

I come down the stairs in the dress I started with 30 minutes ago.

"Which earrings?"

"Black and white or silver?"

"Whit? Can you hear me??"

He turns up the volume on the TV and doesn’t answer me.

"Boots or heels? Last question. I promise."

He plugs his ears and starts humming.

I move toward the door, as if I’m walking back over to the neighbor’s house.

"Okay, okay!" he cries. "Dress. Boots. Black and white earrings. You look beautiful. You’ve never looked prettier. Can we please go now?"

Me, finally placated: Yes. And you could have said that 30 minutes ago and saved us all this drama.

Whit: I will never understand women.

Me: This is exactly why I need a sister wife.

Whit: What the hell are you talking about?

I’m moving to Utah.

And bringing my closet with me.