The Closet: His and Hers

by Sara Codair


​You open the closet on Monday morning, trying to decide what to wear. His side: everything is ironed, organized by color and meticulously hung. Your side: wrinkled shirts cling to hangers and sleeves dangle dangerously close to the floor. Dresses are draped over hangers, twisted beyond recognition.

You stare at your phone, mindlessly pressing the screen until it cooperates, telling you the high for today is nine degrees. You consider a pair of boot-cut khakis, but you know they are too tight - sweat pants will never fit underneath. All your button ups look thin and flimsy, like the wind could tear right through them.

“Women’s clothing sucks,” you mutter to the cat that is curled up on your bed, wearing nothing but fur. It’s fluffy, brown, and much softer than anything on either side of the closet.

Then your eyes roam to your husbands clothing. His khakis aren’t sewn to cling to his legs; they fit nicely over sweat pants. You don’t even need a belt. You put one of his thermal waffle shirts on, and button a brown and orange shirt over it. It’s a little loose, but it hides the parts of your chest you’d rather people not stare at. You restrain your hair with elastic, feed the cat, and rush out the door.

When you get to work, you worry people will criticize your clothing, but nobody does. Your colleague calls your shirt cute and asks you where you got it. Sheepishly, you tell her it’s from your husband’s closet. You both laugh like teenagers confessing their first kiss.

You’re more you in men’s clothing, and you’re not surprised. Whenever your friends post memes complaining about the annoying things their husbands do, you can’t laugh because you do those things. You stink at folding laundry. Your husband smirks at your inability to close cabinets and never stops complaining about how you leave candy wrappers all over the house. He’s better at baking, his handwriting is neater, and he knows how to make things look pretty. If social media can define gender, then he is the wife and you are husband.

When he gets home, he glares with raised eyebrows. “Those look like my clothes.”

“That’s because they are,” you say.

“You didn’t ask to borrow them,” he snarls hanging his jacket. He scans the house, searching for a mess to complain about. You read, ignoring him until he kisses your forehead and asks about your day.

You could get mad at his rudeness, but you don’t. You just smile, return the kiss and ask what he wants for dinner. You understand what he’s really upset about. There have been too many mornings where you’ve seen him stare longingly at your crumpled dresses, wishing he could wear them.

Cooking dinner, you ponder how unfair it is. You cross-dress and get compliments, but the blonde newscaster is reading a story about a man who was nearly beaten to death for wearing a dress on the subway.

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