A Well Dressed Man

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What I Learned by Accident

A Well Dressed Man

Written by Laura Packard

Tuesday, 22 September 2015 14:20

laura packard Y�all, I�m worried.� As usual, of course, about a lot of the usual things: where do all my socks really go after I put them in the dryer, is Fat Free milk really free of fat and is someone at the NSA baffled over how many mason jar photos I have put up on Pinterest and what it could possibly mean to the security of our nation?

But something that happened recently�has me chewing on my nails, popping peanut M&M�s like they�re going out of style and losing my phone on purpose so I don�t try and call a psychic hot line for just a small smidge of advice.

See, I�m used to being a �golfing widow.�� Actually, I kind of enjoy the few hour breaks from mundane, nagging questions such as these:

�What�s for dinner?�

�I know you look busy but can you just swing by the CVS and get some deodorant, a bottle of Prevacid, a jar of that hair gel I like, a tube of Colgate, minty, and a pair of nail clippers, small?�

�I just deleted last night�s Ladies of London from the DVR to make room for History�s Mystery�s: Did Aliens Build the Egyptian Pyramids?� Hope you had a chance to watch it?�

I guess you can say by the weekend, I am more than happy to have him out of my hair for a little while.� But I am also glad when he comes home later that day to find out I burned dinner but will still take the kids to the Huddle House because he loves to eat food without crusty parts stuck to them.��

Unfortunately, my poor �hunting widow� girlfriends don�t have that luxury during hunting season because they are alone all weekend with their precious procreates attached to them like sandspurs on top of Velcro.� This is while their husbands leave early Friday AM cloaked in camouflage before the sun is up, the dogs are walked and the kids start whining over their over-toasted Eggo�s.� They aren�t heard from until nightfall Sunday while the kids are back asleep, the dogs are bathed where upon they lug a carcass of flesh and a few feathered fowl they then attempt to stuff in the fridge you just cleaned.� Next, after they have sprayed their blood soaked boots off in the driveway and dumped a mountain of bloody camo on the recently mopped floor in front of the already over-worked washer, they go straight to bed � without showering, brushing their teeth or turning off the TV.��

So y�all can imagine my dismay when Charlie finally agreed to go deer hunting for a few days at his buddies� land in Statesboro.� Although, I still remained cautiously optimistic my life would remain the same . . . because if there was ever a guy who prefers khakis to long johns, golf carts to tree stands, high powered drivers to rifles and cashmere to camo, it�s mine.�

I gave him a day.

But six hours after he left, my phone kept vibrating off the table like the ricochet of a 20 gauge shot gun. There were videos of grown men crouched in tree stands whispering at each other that made watching a round table discussion on arbitrage pricing theory seem like a whole ball of fun.� I saw pictures of guys in what appeared to be camouflage wet suits with their foreheads marked in fresh mud and another quite disturbing image of my husband�s face smeared in gristle, tissue and a whole lot of blood.

That�s right, folk.� This is what happens when you kill a deer for the first time.� But he not only killed one but two . . . the very first afternoon.

He�ll tell you his friends were amazed, a little jealous and overall dumbfounded by his success.� Two of them there, with the all-out body suits, special scents that make you not have a scent, and hooded face masks, had yet to even kill one and they had been trying for years.�� And to make matters worse, they�d teased him relentlessly when he arrived about his rookie status . . . as in, �You�re not wearing that out into the woods, are you?�

But it turns out Charlie couldn�t scare, spook or get a single deer to run away from him.� Even when his phone would go off, his stomach would growl and his water bottle would crackle, the deer would just stand there, staring at him . . . like �what�s up?� Nice day we�re having . . .� as he noisily trekked back to the stand to get his shot gun.

He came home at sun down Sunday exhausted, of course, with a pile of funky-smelling laundry, bloody sneakers and some venison Lane was going to take to the processor for him.� Before he retired for the night in his post-hunt splendor of providing food for his family and hanging out with other manly men, I asked him what he thought might be the secret to his success.

�Easy,� he says, dumping out his laundry of khakis, polos and windbreakers from his navy blue Peter Millar duffle onto my clean floors next to my over-worked washer. �Deer aren�t afraid of golfers.�

I guess there is something successful about a well-dressed man, after all.