I first met this interesting couple at the restaurant about a year ago. The two sat down in my station and they each ordered a glass of wine. As I am taking the order, I assume the two are lesbians. The slightly more feminine of the two asks for a Chardonnay and the "butch one" orders a Merlot. I wonder if they are sisters, life-partners or just a couple of lady-loving ladies on their way to an Indigo Girls concert with a brief stop at Home Depot. I am a little busy at the time and the bartender tells me that I accidentally picked up a Pinot Grigio instead of the requested Chardonnay. I figure I will wait and see if they even notice. Two minutes later, I am called over to the table where Femmy says, "I do believe this is something other than Chardonnay." She licks her chapped lips and sniffs the inside of her glass. "Perhaps it's a Pinot Grigio, but definitely not a Chardonnay. Can you double check that I got the right glass of wine, please?"
Color me impressed. Color her in plaid flannel.
Upon closer inspection, I see that the two have matching wedding bands so I know now that they are not sisters. Scissor sisters maybe, but not biological ones.
"Are you folks ready to order?" I ask.
Chardonnay Lady says, "Well, I know what I want but he might need a little more time."
I do not hear what she says after that because I am trying to understand why, if this is her husband and he is a man, is he wearing a pair of Mom Jeans. Even using the pronoun of "he" seems wrong. I look closer at the husband as he takes a swallow of his Merlot and I see the bobbing of an Adam's apple in his throat.
Color me surprised. Color him in a pink polo.
A year passes and the couple comes in on occasion. They are always curt and short, never rude but never friendly, not smiling but not frowning either. They are just present. I always make sure to pick up Chardonnay and I have to pinch myself to not say "hello, ladies." He really does look like a woman. Remember Miss Jane Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies? He looks like her, but maybe not quite so manly.
Last week, the couple was in again. It was a hot humid day and they sat at booth 9 and ordered their usual wines. A few minutes later, another couple who had been sitting on the patio comes inside to finish their bottle of rosé in the air conditioning.
When they walk past the couple at booth 9, the couple that consists of a man and a woman, Mom Jeans Man says to him, "Hey, real men don't drink rosé."
"When it's this hot outside they do," countered the rosé drinking possibly unreal man heading to the bar.
men were obviously friends, but the exchange was odd because the man claiming
that real men don't drink a certain beverage has so often confused me with
his gender. Do real men not drink rosé? Do real men only drink Merlot? Do real mean have bottoms shaped like pears? Do real men wear Mom Jeans? I am confused.
"Well, I guess we can make an exception then'" says Pear Bottom. "It is hot, after all."
The rosé-drinking man laughs and sits his decidedly un-pear-like ass onto a bar stool. Miss Jane Hathaway takes another swig of his Merlot and orders another. His wife asks for a second Chardonnay and gives me the look that says "don't fuck it up again" even though I only messed up that one time and it was accident over a year ago. It's our thing now, I guess.
The rest of my time with them is uneventful. They leave satisfied if not thrilled. I get a 20% tip and I am secure in knowing that for every pair of Mom Jeans there is a pear shaped ass ready to fill it and sometimes that pear shaped ass might belong to a man who looks more like a woman than Miss Jane Hathaway.
The moral of this story is to never judge a book by its cover. Or a man by his Mom Jeans.
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