One of the oldest lesbian jokes, other than the U-haul one, is the one about sharing shoes and clothes. Now, I get the U-haul thing. Hell, I’ve even been on the receiving end of hearing a horn blow only to look out my kitchen window and see some excited girl I did the night before loaded down with wicker furniture, Greek Mythology poetry books, her long-haired cat and her Epiphone guitar (“because it’s just like the one Melissa plays") parked in my driveway. While I have been on the receiving end of that joke, I can honestly say I have never, ever been able to share clothes with an old girlfriend. And I dare say, my wife and I have never mistaken each other’s clothes for our own.

While we are the same age, the same height and average build, and we could share the same clothes, there are just some obvious reasons why we will never, and should never, share the same wardrobe.

Firstly, we are the true definition of Packer and Poodle. For those of you who may not be sure of the difference and which one of us is which, I am the Packer. Now let me give you a visual of our closet and just why it is not possible for us to share clothes. My side of the closet, the left quarter of the 300 sq. ft. space, is stacked with my Harley Davidson boots, my Ariat Ropers, my Keens, my two pair of Merrills and my original pair of college-issue 1988 Doc Martens. I have a shelf that holds my pounds of hooded sweatshirts, all of which I have given a proper Christian name, and a different shelf that holds the blue, black and gray sweatpants that are all interchangeable with the properly named sweatshirts and completes my hooded ensembles.

Now, I'm sure you are wondering if I wear boots with my sweatpants, and I just have to say that would be damn silly. My tennis shoes are in my gym bag thrown in the back of my SUV and have to always be retrieved from the back of the 4-Runner before I am properly dressed and ready to leave the house. I do make it a point to put on my Paw Paw slippers with my sweat suit attire to retrieve my tennis shoes from the car parked in the front of the house “for all the neighbors to see,” but when you’re completing an outfit, in the name of fashion, you have to do what has to be done.

I also have a hanging bar that holds my jeans, my few button-up shirts and my Kenneth Cole blazers for church and fancy events. And no, I don’t wear my boots and tennis shoes to church, I also have a pair of black, Prada loafers…my church loafers. And on top of my hanging bars are a few hooks where my various ball caps and pimp’n brims hang. That ladies and lesbos is the description of my corner of the closet…the Packer corner.

While my corner of the closet if quite kempt and orderly, filled with classic and timeless fabrics, her 298 sq. ft. of the closet is filled with her shiny clothes. Yes, my wife wears shiny clothes. Now I don’t mean to make her sound like a freak, so let’s be clear. I’m not talking about gaudy, weirdo, shiny cat shirts or anything. She wears very stylish, and might I add, expensive clothes. She looks like a million bucks every time she leaves the house. I mean she is a CEO for Christ-sakes, so I don’t mean to conjure up Donna Summer or Richard Simmons in your mind when I speak of shiny clothes. I’m talking about little strappy, sparkly shirts that go under blazers. And sparkly, shoes with a high heel. And it’s all over…the glitter, the bobbles, the shiny little round things and buttons are all over the closet. Apparently there hasn’t been a fabric glue discovered that holds shiny shit to shirts, straps or blazers. When you open up our closet door and turn on the light, it looks like that scene when Indiana Jones in The Temple of Doom opened up the treasure chest. You half expect to hear Celine Dion singing about that Titanic diamond and beating her chest. Ah, hell…it’s a beautiful thing.

And the beauty doesn’t stop there. No, no wherever she walks there is a little trail of poodle dust that she leaves behind.  Again, the fabric glue sucks, but it is a sure fire way to know if she ever cheats on me. All I have to do is search the city for some unassuming Packer who has gold lame residue stuck to the back of her leather jacket,  because you can’t be near her and not get that shit on you.  And forget about getting it out of the cloth seats of a 4-Runner.  That stuff hangs in those crevices like a hair in a biscuit.

So you see, in the real world of  Packers & Poodles, those old jokes aren’t even funny. A true Packer never sparkles, and you’ll never catch a Poodle in a hooded sweatshirt. However, if you do see me out and about and you catch something shiny on my clothes…you can know I just huggled and snuggled my wife.

Live and Love Equally!