I have a college friend who writes about parenting with stunningly touching prose.  I’ve asked her to contribute to this site figuring her uncommon eloquence would be a nice change of pace for the half-dozen or so of my regular readers (I’m assuming you know who you are since we tend to bump into each other at family functions).  What follows is dedicated to my friend, although she’s never once obliged my requests for contribution.

Who am I kidding? She’s so busy with the challenges of parenting I should consider myself fortunate she replies to my occasional texts. Regardless, what follows is dedicated to her and the extraordinary efforts she and her husband put forth raising their extraordinary son.

Given the internet’s ability to retain information until the end of time, I tend to write about the people I know without mentioning them by name and I’m about to do the same with my friend.  In the article below, she’ll be referred to as “Spatricia.”  This should give the Russian trolls some sleuthing to do should Spatricia ever decide to run for mayor of “Sincinnati” or something.

I first met Spatricia during what would turn out to be a very influential time of my life (we refer to the specific time now as the 1980’s).  We were together during one of the biggest nights of my life.  If she’s reading this now, she’s probably thinking, “wait, what?” although it wouldn’t surprise her at all to find out that I’m actually talking about Game 6 of the 1986 World Series.

Truth be told, this post isn’t really about Spatricia at all, but merely dedicated to her.  If I hadn’t lost the majority of my personal affects years ago, I’d undoubtedly have at least a few reminders of the bold fashion choices we made during those times.  Spatricia would probably even be featured in at least a few of them.

So, in honor of Spatricia.

I spent yesterday running back and forth to the mall attempting to get my Lovely Red Headed Wife’s cellphone fixed.  The multiple trips were necessary as the “repair” eventually turned into a “replace” and the replace necessitated a full backup of the old phone’s contents.  I had a pretty full work schedule so hanging out at the mall waiting for a multi-gigabyte phone to completely sync with iCloud couldn’t be synced into the agenda.

There was a brief moment I had some time to kill, and in that brief moment I found myself browsing through Macy’s.  Whether I’m enough of a grownup I should’ve considered Nordstrom’s instead of Macy’s is something that can be debated elsewhere (it’s also mentioned elsewhere). I neither wanted nor needed anything, so I hit the sale racks to take a look at what it was specifically that no one else wanted or needed either.

As one of the semi-asides I’m prone to, after my father passed away, I found myself cleaning out his closet. Among several of his bold fashion choices, I found several items of my own—things that had been mis-sorted in the laundry once upon a time, and then because he wasn’t about to wear a Spring Break 1991 t-shirt or acid-washed jeans, had worked their way to the back of his closet never again to see the light of day… at least not until I stumbled upon this perfectly preserved time capsule.

I was thrilled to find the t-shirt, a knit tie, and several other odds and ends, but the jeans? Despite the fact they actually fit, “clearly high waisted” wasn’t a look I needed to sport in 2010.  I think they wound up dropped off at Ronald McDonald House or someplace similar.  My apologies to whoever wound up with them, especially if that person was excited when the jeans were first noticed and the height of their waist not yet discovered.

But truth be told, there have been times when I found myself wishing I’d never given those jeans away… if even to only be able to sport them for occasional shock value or maybe remind my lovely red headed wife just how lucky she is to have found me.

I’m committed to low clutter, but when was I ever going to find another pair of acid washed jeans? (The first part of that statement might send some eyes rolling, and you wouldn’t be completely wrong to call me out on it.  For now, all I’ll say is that the Snowflakes aren’t as committed to low-clutter as I am.)

At one time, the question of my jean selection being evidence of my lovely red headed wife’s good fortune might have been offered as a rhetorical question, but as of yesterday, it has a decidedly non-rhetorical answer.  My new jeans are the denim equivalent of the collision of worlds: all of the goodness of acid wash combined with loose fit and stretch fabric. They’re so absolutely perfect it’s almost as though they’re completely future-proof and will never go out of style again.

While that last point is perhaps somewhat (not) shocking, I don’t have time to stand and debate the issue. I feel as though I need to run off and pour some sugar on something, or run to you, or perhaps even dance if I want to.

(I think you get my point.)

And this is why I’m thinking about Spatricia today.  I’m also thinking about the hair that I used to have and remembering what it was like to stumble out of bed in the morning and wonder how well Dwight Gooden pitched the night before.  And all those times we as adults have found ourselves thankful that cameras didn’t exist everywhere when we were younger and making stupid decisions?  I’m about to make some new memories.

And Spatricia, I hope you’re having a great day wherever you happen to be.