Young couples wear matching t-shirts. From there, they move to matching sweaters. Before long, it’s matching sweatsuits and sneakers. Doug and I are strange. We wear matching undies. Which is all fine and good because it amuses us without bothering anyone else.

Usually.

At an event with a group consisting mainly of women my age and older, I pulled out my phone to answer someone’s question. Instead of opening to a screen of boxes full of icons, it opened to the last thing I was doing on the phone, my text messages. The husband had left the house without letting me know his wardrobe selection that morning, so he sent me a picture. My phone lit up with a colorful picture of my husband’s drawers as two of the sweetest 60somethings you’d ever meet looked over my shoulder.

This wasn’t a texting politician kinda picture. It was completely benign and frankly, women of our age wash, dry, fold and put away men’s laundry without feeling anything titillating about it. There comes a point in your life where you realize that what people say and do is far sexier than what they wear or how they look. The picture on my phone wasn’t offensive, but it made me feel inconsiderate of others. Now, when the husband and I don’t coordinate our wardrobe plans in the morning, we have a mismatched day. Oddly enough, that amuses us, too.