high entertainment

On our way to a Pennsylvania wedding this past weekend, we stopped at the mall to buy a suit for my husband. He’d purchased one himself earlier that week, but when he’d modeled his purchases for me at home, I’d coldly vetoed nearly every single item.

I told you I needed you to come with me, he huffed.

I told you not to wait to the last minute, I puffed.

It turned out fine. There was a JCPenney store en route and they were having a huge sale. And taking all the kids to the mall ended up being sort of fun. Like, really fun. Like, maybe the highlight of the entire weekend?

While I interrogated a JCPenney employee on the intricacies of men’s fashion and my husband shimmied in and out of jackets, the kids alternated between exploring the store, running laps, selecting ties, and getting friendly with the mannequins.

Oh wait. That was me getting all cozy with the plastic people. My bad.

And then my older son was like, “Hey, Mom. Can I get my ears pierced? I’ll pay for it myself.” And I was like, “Sure, sweets.” So we all paraded to the piercing center where my husband signed forms and my son got holes punched in his ears.

Suit buying and ear piercing, all in the same hour. That, my friends, is called High Entertainment, Murch Style.

Confession: I kind of hate suits. Possibly because I associate them with religious pomposity, but also because they’re ridiculous. All pretense and no practicality. The uniformity of the outfit—matching pants, matching jacket, matching vest—makes me twitchy. And ties are straight-up weird. A noose around the neck? Come on. (I do like the vests, though. Sexy, schmexy.)

But then my husband stuffed himself into a gray summer suit and I was like, Oh. Um, wow. Maybe suits aren’t so bad after all?

I don’t think my children had ever seen their father in a suit. They were agog. Our youngest began fussing that he needed his own suit now, and later, when we stripped down in the parking lot post-wedding in preparation for our trip home, the older two filched bits and pieces of his get-up and then strutted about the lot.

Anyway. Now my husband has a suit in his closet and my son has holes in his ears.

The end.

This same time, years previous: sinking in, street food, stuff, garbled, Greek cucumber and tomato salad, this, too, shall pass, a glimpse, sheet shortcake, sourdough waffles, microwave flower press, fresh tomatillo salsa, and freezing strawberries.    


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