Dan’s feeling persecuted because I’ve objected to two of his outfits in the last few days.

First, on Saturday night, my mom offered to put the baby to bed, so we could escape for a quick dinner. Dan moseyed downstairs, dressed in a faded Dixie Chicks t-shirt that featured the band (three gorgeous women) sitting at a table, laughing and flipping their hair.

“What?” he demanded when I asked him incredulously if that was what he was wearing out. “I’m a fan!”

Then, last night he came home from work at 5:30, exactly on time for a meeting with our architect. (“Please don’t be late,” I had implored that morning.)

“I’ll just go upstairs and change,” he said. A few moments later he appeared in his pajamas – a ratty Williams College t-shirt and green jogging pants.

I felt exasperation rising up within me. "Why are you wearing your pajamas for this meeting?!"

“This is not pajamas!” He insisted. “It’s my after-five wear!”

I suppose I should have been happy that his "after-five" ensemble did not, on this occasion, include his gold t-shirt emblazoned in maroon with the phrase "Olde Farte."