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He also wore pointed cowboy boots, long before they were in style. I thought I'd be embarrassed by them, until I saw his dress shoes. Prepped for a night out, he looked like everything I'd made fun of for most of my life.

He had on white patent leather shoes with gold buckle-like things on them. He was wearing white polyester flared pants that were a bit short and a black polyester shirt with white polka dots. I wanted to laugh because I was high and cry because I was bringing him over to meet my family.

I am one of five daughters and we've been known to crucify people without them ever feeling the nails going in. We were merciless. It's a catty telepathy: Our putdowns often were screamed across the table with a silent look that only we understood. Our victims, otherwise known as dates, were unaware of being inspected and graded. And here I was, about to bring over another unsuspecting nice guy and he was dressed like this.

Miraculously, everyone behaved. I think that Phil's outfit was beyond anything that my family was prepared to deal with. It would have been almost redundant for them to make fun of him.

Phil, in his typical, gentlemanly way, invited them to join us in the surprise he had planned for me. Everyone except my younger sister Annie declined. She was underage, but Phil let us know that he was connected at the club where we were going and he could get her in.

Phil was correct when he guessed that this date would really impress me. It turned out that one of Phil's closest friends was an Elvis impersonator. His creativity was immediately apparent -- he spelled his name without the "E." Lvis also wore a cape and a huge belt. Unfortunately, we were late, and even though Phil was connected at the Blue Bonnet bar, we had to stand in the back. This was a shame because I could not see over some of the hairdos, men's and women's in this case.

You know how it is when you're standing next to someone and both of you are laughing inside so hard that your shoulders shake? Well, this is what happened to my sister and me. And the more we tried to hold it in, the more our shoulders vibrated against each other. While Lvis was singing "Hunk of Burning Love," he began to toss out hankies that his mother had embroidered. We ran to the ladies' room to avoid wetting our pants.

The fact that we had a second date and that Phil moved in with me on the third is still a mystery. I was living in a flat that was decorated with some of my favorite items: a brass hula girl lamp in which the girl actually did the hula, three stolen plastic pink flamingos, a few beers and some cheese in the refrigerator and an electric train set. Phil's house was like the ones I'd relieved of their pink flamingos.

A few days after he moved into my flat, he went out and bought a matching bathroom set; I'd never had one before. The shower curtain matched the cup, toothbrush holder and even the rugs. I was able to talk him out of the toilet seat cover, but he was disappointed. He wanted to buy things for me. He was going to fix things up for me. He was going to take care of me.

It still embarrasses me that I believed I was so much better than him.

Love didn't blind me completely, however. I did have some minor changes to suggest for him.The cowboy boots could stay, but the pants needed to be Levis and a little longer than his other pants. (I had to call a girlfriend from the plant to ask her how to wash polyester, which he still wore to work.) I talked him into some cotton shirts (before I found out they had to be ironed). Western music was okay in moderation, and I found music that crossed over with rock and roll, like Marshall Tucker, Bob Seeger and Emmylou Harris.

From the beginning, Phil was open to whatever music I listened to and whatever clothes I wanted to wear. Unconcerned with fashion or correctness, he truly accepts people as they are. He is unaware of the packages people come in; he never knows if someone is rich, racist or Romanian. He did tell me early on that he liked long hair and I told him, sure, he might look cool with his hair longer. That was the first and last suggestion he ever gave me on my appearance.

He does wear jeans now, although they are still an inch too short and I suspect they have polyester in them -- they don't seem to fade over the years. I have even gotten used to the tape measure on his belt. I just figure it is my good luck that I am asked to ask my husband -- every day if I want to: "Is that a tape measure you're wearing, or are you just glad to see me?"

The white shoes are gone, but not forgotten.
salon.com | Jan. 18, 2000

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