I like buying my husband hoodie sweatshirts.
He wears them for work, layering them in the cold because they give him more movement than big bulky jackets.
His sweatshirts get beat up pretty badly. If it’s not being crammed behind the seat of a tractor that does them in, it’s the grease and grime of a mechanic’s life. Especially once warmer weather starts coming and he pulls off layers as the day goes on. One never knows where a sweatshirt may end up.
I try to make sure he has a couple “good” hoodies…which only lasts as long as he remembers he’s wearing one.
Like, for example, the day I watched him crawl underneath a friend’s manure spreader while wearing his last good hoodie. I groaned, but it was only a small groan because I’m actually fascinated that he can fix things–and I love that when people need help, he gives. Always.
But there’s a reason I love buying him new sweatshirts to replace the turned-into-grease-rag ones that leave his shelves.
I like wearing his hoodies.
I have my own, of course. Ones that actually fit me well.
But when I am tired, or hurting, or feeling sad–I’d rather wear his.
Or, you know, if I’m snuggling in my chair to read a book. (Which can happen any day, all day, so it’s nice to keep one on hand, just in case.)
Since I don’t ruin them like he does (though they may smell a bit more like cocoa butter than he probably prefers) it’s a good arrangement.
And the one time I muttered on about being sorry that I looked so frumpy wearing a giant sweatshirt, he just grinned and told the kids their mama was terrible cute. (I haven’t made any more comments since then because I’m quite content with that response and I don’t ever want to know if he changes his mind.)
But, of course, it was my fault his last good sweatshirt got ruined.
I had found it at a garage sale and since it was Nike brand, almost new, and cheap–I snatched it up. The fact that it was lightish blue made me pause for a minute, but then I shrugged. It was fine. And soft. And cozy looking. We don’t do white stuff at our house, but light blue might not be an issue as long as it stayed out of the shop.
My husband wore it a couple times before I snatched it one morning. I was extra tired as I trudged up the stairs. He was already up, with coffee ready, which pleased me exceedingly. He glanced over at me and grinned. “You look especially cute in that sweatshirt,” he said.
I smiled at him as I sat down, picked up my coffee, lifted it to my mouth, totally missed, and dumped half the cup down the front of the sweatshirt.
I looked down and sighed. It was going to stain. Of course it was going to stain.
My husband just laughed. “I should know better than to let you do anything when you’re tired.”
Our eyes met. We both knew what he was talking about. Early in our marriage we were staining some trim boards for a new addition we had put on the house. (And by “we”, I mean, “he” as there is no question about who in this family is capable of building anything.)
It was getting late but he wanted to just finish the trim boards quick so they could dry overnight. I was holding the gallon of stain and I said, “Honey, I am so, so tired.” And two seconds later, I moved a little, fumbled, and proceeded to dump the gallon of stain over everything.
My slippers. The new floors that were just finished. (Because obviously the stain would FLY and not drop straight down on the plastic drop cloth that covered half the floor.) The freshly painted walls. My husband.
It went everywhere.
And I just stood there, frozen, with huge tears trailing down my face.
It took me a whole twenty-four hours before I could even laugh about it. Which is a long time for me. Usually I am the first person to be cracking up over my crazy stunts. Not this time. I was still crying when he tucked me into bed.
I mean, the WALLS. My SLIPPERS. The FLOORS.
We never did repaint the walls and they still have splashes of brown stain on them.
And, it turns out, we never did try to get the coffee stain out of the sweatshirt. Instead, he tossed it in his work pile and after an hour in the shop it had more grease stains than I could ever dream up.
The moral of this story?
We’ll, there are two morals. The first is obvious: don’t let Tasha touch ANYTHING when she is tired. (We’ll, maybe that’s less of a “moral” and more of a wisdom proverb.)
The second? Girls, if you’re unmarried, make sure you wait for the guy who is willing to share his sweatshirts with you (even if you stain them) and clean up gallons of varnish if you dump them all over his almost-finished projects– and still call you cute in the end.
Because life is full of surprises and mess ups and stains… so be a person who can handle them, and marry someone who will laugh with you over the memories.