This morning I was sitting in the La-Z-Boy when Hick drove up and parked the Gator in the front yard and rushed past me to the bathroom. It was around 11:15, and I'd been freezing since I got up. So I had on my jammie pants, a short-sleeve oxford shirt, my baby-blue baggy sweatshirt, and my sock cap that I wear outside during my walk. Plus I was covered with a green, orange, and tan afghan that my uncle's friend in Alaska had made for my mom many years ago.
"I'm going to have a shower and head to town for my soda."
"Good. I don't want the roofer to see you in your sock cap."
"Don't you like my sock cap?" It's black. With a square Carhartt logo on the front, and sticks up about four inches of slack from the top of my head.
"I like your sock cap...out in the driveway when you're walking. But you don't need to wear it in the house."
"Is the roofer coming IN the house?"
"No. He'll be on top."
"Then why does it matter?"
"I don't know. I just didn't want him to see you in it."
Let the record show that Hick made no comment on the rest of my attire. No complaints about the jammie pants printed with big stars and moons, nor the sweatshirt four sizes too big, with ripped cuffs dangling by threads.
Had the roofer gotten there early, I had a good mind to stroll out the back door and greet him. In my sock cap. Because Hick is not the boss of me! Even though the power of being in my sphere of influence two extra days a week seems to be going to his head.
Unless Hick was selling peep-show tickets to roofers so they could look through the mini-blinded kitchen windows at me...I don't think he had any say in my indoor wardrobe.