We were watching a basketball game the other night when my husband yelled, “Look at that!” I looked up from whatever riveting activity I was doing, perhaps counting the dust bunnies under the sofa, expecting to see some amazing half-court shot or devastating cheerleading accident.   

What I saw was a group of mutantly-tall young men hovering over a handsome, well-dressed smaller person who must have been the coach, because he didn’t seem afraid of them. This coach, I gathered, was the focus of my husband’s attention.

“Just look at him!” he cried in disgust, with as much passion as I’ve heard in his voice in a long time. “He’s wearing cuff links with a sports watch! Can you even believe that?!” As if the average person would have noticed.

I looked back at this man to whom I committed my life and distractedly appraised his outfit of choice for the evening, which included a striped dress shirt, plaid pullover sweater, sweat pants with a hole in the thigh, one dress sock, and slippers.   

“No, I sure can’t,” I said. “How can some people leave the house?”  

He looked down at himself, back at me, and growled. He clearly was not amused, and I guess I don’t blame him. I know where his buttons are, and I push them. It’s what I do.  

But then I had to stop and think. Clothes are important to my husband. He’s very sensitive about them, as demonstrated by our annual contribution to his dry cleaner’s mortgage. Unfortunately, however, since our new arrival, “well-dressed” in our house means “vomit-free.”  So he lashed out in disgust over what is to most a detail but to him a fashion faux pas because he himself was sporting a burpy cloth.    

What’s going on here? I can’t help but wonder if maybe we sometimes criticize others for things we struggle with ourselves.

My husband couldn’t fault the coach’s clothes, because he was in fact a natty dresser. He dressed the way my husband used to dress, and still does if he can make it out of the house before a child jumps on his back. But it hurt my husband a little to see it, I think, and so he grasped at the only available blemish – the cuff links with the sports watch – as the target of his disdain.  

So maybe that’s it. Maybe when we see something we want but can’t have, it’s easier to find fault than to face the fact that we can’t have it, for whatever reason that may be. I thought back to when I was a kid and mocked all the little girls with their little monogrammed purses and sweaters. The truth was that I wanted my own little monogrammed stuff, but since I couldn’t have it, it was easier to pretend I didn’t like it. Worked with boys, too, come to think of it.   

So anyway, there I was, all smug and uppity for having successfully analyzed my husband yet again, when it was my turn. He was picking me up from the exercise class to which I’ve condemned myself, when I pointed out a classmate who was in fantastic shape, beautiful, and nice – in short, everything I currently am not but am struggling to be.

“Look at that woman!” I cried in disgust. “Can you even believe her?!” I was clearly piqued. My husband glanced her way for what seemed an inordinately long period of time.  

“I’m looking, and still trying to find a flaw,” he finally said, which anyone knows was not the correct response.  

Can’t find a flaw, my butt, I muttered to myself. “Just look at her!” I cried. “Don’t you see she’s got a hair out of place? I mean, really! How can some people leave the house?”