Speaking of Clothes

If this blog is supposed to share stories about and descriptions of Steve that others my not already know, then disclosing that his attire was boring, bad, worn, torn and frequently down-right disreputable definitely falls outside the blog’s purpose.  As I told him one time when he had had an altercation with another customer in a bakery and suddenly got worried that the guy would sue him (that’s a whole other story):  “Don’t worry, Steven, that guy would never in a million years guess that you’re worth suing.  You always walk around looking judgment-proof.”

But lack of sartorial splendor was definitely part of the Steve picture, for better and worse.  When we would get into the car for an evening activity, Steven would occasionally look over at me (wearing clothes appropriate for the occasion), glance at himself, and then say:  “Are we going to the same party?”  Even Nick, who was generally unfazed by his father’s apparel, chastised me for not having better control over my husband when all the fathers at a pre-prom party wore jackets and Steven turned up in gym shorts, worn running shoes and a torn, faded (albeit clean) t-shirt.  As we got older and Steve started looking seedier and seedier, we became the clothing equivalent of Jack Sprat and his wife.  

This brings two stories to mind.  Once Steven came striding purposefully into the room where Lizzy and I were, with his hair sticking up all over his head and an intensely consternated look in his eyes.   I asked:  “Steven, why are you stomping around the place looking crazy?”  Lizzy, ever her father’s champion and apologist, jumped in with:  “No, no, mom, he doesn’t look crazy; he just looks crazed.”    Steven immediately and enthusiastically embraced this distinction.  Ever after, when I said something to him like:  “You’re looking like a particularly psychologically- impaired homeless person today,” he would remind me that he only looked crazed, not crazy, so pipe down.