Well, of men mostly, but also related to the "best laid plans."
On Saturday, I accepted a knitting commission worth about $300. It's to be a trade for something really special and hand-made I'd like to get for LB but can't afford.
I asked the gent what colors his wife tended to wear so that I could design her item.
Now mind you, this wasn't what she tended to wear in general, but what she tended to wear to reenactments. Most female reenactors have fewer than six dresses, and six would be a lot. Many women, in fact, may have only two.
He had absolutely no idea. None. At. All.
I know for a fact that this man loves his wife deeply. I once saw him sing an old ballad, eyes fixed on hers, and every other woman in the room tried not to weep openly at the love shining on his face.
He could describe her hair color and her complexion, but not one single hint about the color of her dress.
I found it mind boggling.
Just to test, I asked LB the same question. He managed to describe my green dress, my lilac dress, my lavender dress, and only missed by a shade on my plum dress (he said brown, which I'll grant him). He even was able to describe dresses I was wanting to make but hadn't yet finished.
On the drive home this weekend, he pointed out the spot where we'd lost the plexiglass on our truck camper years before. I remembered being greatful we hadn't knocked out anyone's windshield with the the flying plexiglass. He remembered being greatful that nothing had happened to my brand new ballgown in the back of the truck. "So new, it still had the cardboard tits in it," he said.
I know for certain he'll never be singing me any ballads,* but I know for damn sure that he pays attention.
*although he did sing me something from South Pacific this morning. Unfortunately it wasn't a romantic ballad. It was "Wonderful Guy" and he said he was singing it on my behalf about him.