Kitchen Couture

“You can’t wear potholders to a funeral.”

I’m pretty sure I’m the first and only person in human history to utter that sentence.

But there I am in the kitchen telling my husband, “You can’t wear potholders to a funeral!"

And lest you think I was suggesting that he not wear some kind of creative cannabis carrying container, no. The man was literally wearing two brightly colored potholders, hand-woven by our now 27-year-old daughter back when she was 10.

He had tweaked an already troublesome knee and was fearful that it would go out for good when he climbed the stairs to the synagogue for a client’s memorial service. So to ensure his safety and the safety of those in his wake, he borrowed the knee brace our son used after reconstruction surgery.

“It rubs around the shin,” he declared, which is why my textile MacGyver rigged up the imaginative dual potholder cushion in vivid contrast to his dark mourning suit.

Ever frugal, he didn’t see why he should waste money on a cushioned bandage when the potholders were free. And certainly, his longtime client who’d passed away wouldn’t get see this garment gaffe, but countless other business associates would.

“Well at least put your colorful cushion under your sock?” I suggested, imagining the corner loops catching on another funeral-goer’s walker and a domino effect of elderly mourners piled at the base of the bimah.

I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation.

Yet, the signs that something like this might happen – that he might stop caring about his appearance out in the world - were there from the start. This totally handsome young man had just gotten contact lenses when we met on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. My heart was pittering and pattering when we went on our first date and he held my hands in his across the table at Toppers overlooking the Pacific Ocean a week later. But after five or six more dates, when he’d clearly hooked me, he reverted back to his glasses. “I used the contacts to land the girl. They did their job,” he explained, “But glasses are just more comfortable.”

Clearly comfort is a theme.

When we got married a year and a half later, he didn’t want to have glasses on in the photos, but he didn’t wear his uncomfortable contacts either. As I arrived at the end of the petal-strewn aisle to the flower-covered arch by the waterfall, my soon-to-be husband had tears in his eyes. I falsely assumed that my fluffy white-gowned radiance had deeply moved him, but no. “The sun was in my eyes,” he revealed.

Don’t get me wrong, he looks great in his wire rim glasses. Cutest man I know. My white Denzel Washington. But Denzel would never wear potholders. 

And Denzel would not have taken his wife out for sushi in a tan pin-striped business shirt topped with a red and black lumberjack flannel along with white socks and black Crocs. But that is what my date wore last week. The sad thing is that I didn’t even notice as we left the house. I didn’t even look at the guy who once I couldn’t keep my eyes off. It wasn’t until we walked into the restaurant that I bothered to actually observe my date and realized that someone should have said something before we left the house and since the kids are off living their lives, that someone was me.

When our children were tiny, I let them wear whatever they fancied. Spiderman went to the Huntington Gardens wearing a Batman cape. Sleeping Beauty once attended a family wedding, tiara and all. Stripes blended with polka dots and mismatched socks if that was what came out of the drawers that day. “There are bigger battles to wage than what they are wearing,” I often explained to the quizzical faces of childless relatives and friends.

For my kids, I saw it as self-expression, but with my husband, I’m beginning to feel like he’s given up. After well-over a quarter century of commitment, he has absolutely zero need to impress me. White undershirts and “Call of Duty” pajama pants and those damned Crocs are his favorite attire. He’d have worn that ensemble out to dinner, I suspect, if the pjs weren’t in the hamper.

But then I turn the mirror to myself, to the countless days that my to-do list has gotten so long that I don’t make time to shower and I make dinner in my workout clothes with an unkempt ponytail. Some days, when I have no where I have to be or no Zoom calls to jump on, I totally forget to look in the mirror at all, and when I do, I realize I have old mascara smears under my eyes and ink on my cheek.

My husband probably remembers a girl who used to wear perfume and smaller, stylish jeans or sexy business suits. She got gussied up for trips to get groceries, or at least put on something other than yoga pants. Then again, maybe he too no longer notices the girl he once couldn’t keep his eyes off of.

And I really have no right to critique. I hiked Fryman Canyon with a friend last week, wearing my Lululemon pants with the mesh triangles behind the knees. They are both breathable and trendy. I went out for coffee then to Costco. I ran into many friends along the way. When I got in the car to head home late in the day, I scratched at an itch on the back of my leg. Huh, I thought, I didn’t realize there was so much material in the knee area on these pants. I touched the other leg and there wasn’t extra fabric there. It turns out I’d spent my entire day confidently running errands like Sporty Spice with a pair of my daughter’s hot pink thong underwear visibly stuck in the mesh behind my knee cap. They must have gotten into my pants in the laundry during her last visit and I never even noticed. So yeah, who am I to criticize someone for wearing potholders.

But I am left wondering, when did we start relaxing into this “I am who I am” space.  Why don’t we try to impress each other anymore? Is being this being overly comfy together a good thing?

I think I need go back to getting gussied up myself. And I need to remind my husband that he is HOT. Like straight out of the oven, MC Hammer YOU CAN’T TOUCH THIS hot. As in can someone pass me some potholders?

But please don’t wear them to the funeral.

As told at Story Salon on Wednesday, September 10, 2025.