The Apron and the Ace
A week after we got married and moved in together, I was unpacking dishes in our new kitchen—stacking plates, humming, feeling the cozy rhythm of our new life—when Derek walked in, grinning ear to ear, holding a small box.
“Surprise!” he said.
Inside was a frilly apron and an ankle-length, floral dress that looked like it came straight out of a 1950s housewife catalog.
“It’s your house uniform,” he said proudly.
I blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Totally,” he said. “My mom wore one every day—it just makes things feel more orderly. Keeps you in that homemaker mindset. No pressure though, just tradition.”
Ah, there it was. Derek had always called himself “old-fashioned.” I thought that meant opening doors and cooking Sunday breakfast. Not assigning uniforms like I was auditioning for *The Handmaid’s Tale*.
I smiled sweetly and said, “Of course, honey. Anything for tradition.”
But inside, I was already brewing my plan.
That night, I laid the apron neatly across the bed—alongside a neatly folded uniform for him: *a leopard-print speedo and a pink feather boa.*
When Derek walked in, he froze.
“What… is this?” he asked.
“Your house uniform,” I said with a grin. “My dad used to mow the lawn in his swim trunks and sing show tunes. It’s just a family tradition. No pressure.”
He looked like a deer caught in a disco ball.
“Okay, okay,” he muttered, tossing the boa aside. “Maybe no uniforms.”
I leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Great! Now, let’s go back to being equals—without the dress code.”
Derek never brought up the apron again.
But the speedo? I hung it in the closet, just in case he forgot who he married.
