Identity Crisis

For the 86th time, on the fourth of July, the entire country celebrated my mom’s birthday. Those of you that know her, know she has her quirks and strong opinions.

Allison leaned back and said, “Do you know what one of my favorite things your mom did over the years was?”

I was hesitant to answer. Was she serious? Sarcastic? Was I suppose to guess?

“I just loved it when she duct taped a big X on her suitcase when we flew somewhere.”

I don’t know if it was because she was a child during the depression, or because her and dad didn’t have two nickels to rub together through the 50’s and 60’s, but she didn’t want to lose anything, and by golly someone might take her luggage by mistake. Never, in all of our travels, did I see a similar, enormous, circa 70’s, green, hard-sided suitcase, but the one I did see had a large silver X on it. Come to think of it, she never lost it either.

I made a comment about the generation. The cake pans, tupperware, and folding chairs all had names on them. They all loved to share, but they needed the necessities back. Then I made my mistake. I always have to tell a story. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

I was 21 and sharing a drink with an attractive young lady. The way I remember it, I was making good headway and the evening was looking promising. She giggled at the appropriate times and gave the overall impression that she was enjoying my company. She seemed quite interested in my shirt. She played with my sleeve and, I guess, checked out the quality, because she wanted to know what brand it was.

It was a new shirt and I didn’t know, or care what brand it was. Most of my nice clothes had disappeared at college, so I had gone shopping to replace them. I asked the gal at the store what looked good, and that’s what I bought.

So, that’s how I got to this point in the evening, pretty girl, leaning in close, and my heart rate beginning to rise. Just so all of you know, that was the high water mark in the evening. I told her to check and see what kind of a shirt it was. She pulled my collar back with one hand, and quickly covered her mouth with the other.

“What brand is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what’s it say?”

She tried to stifle the laughter, but she failed. She finally said, through gasps, “It says, DAN HUEBNER!”

Mom strikes again. My mother, bless her heart, had sewn my name into every article of clothing I owned. Where she found fabric name tags is beyond me, but the air rushed out of my entire evening and ego like a big balloon. It made about two loops and went ‘thud’ on the floor.

It’s not like it’s going to damage our marriage, at this point, but my lovely bride laughed way too hard at that story. She sat on the couch and laughed. She let out a snort a short time later just thinking about it. Then she walked by me on her way to bed, quietly chuckling. I thought she was going to reach over and check my collar.