My husband is a hybrid. He’s in a collared shirt most of the time. In winter it’s mostly flannels, in summer it’s sport shirts and a few Hawaiians. Sometimes he wears jeans or khakis. In summer it’s mostly cargo shorts. His go-to footwear is a pair of tattered Birkenstocks unless there’s snow on the ground. (Oh wait, there is and he wore them to his physical therapy appointment this morning, with socks. At least they weren’t white.)

Funny story: we were waiting to get into the annual Doobie Brothers benefit concert for veterans in California’s wine country a few years ago. It was outdoor, open seating. We each had a blanket and he said, “When the gate opens, let’s split up and each get the best place we can, then come find me and we’ll see which one of us has the better spot.” (He’s tall so I always come find him in crowds because he’s easier to find.)

I get to my spot and begin to scan the crowd for a tall, gray haired guy with a beard and glasses wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Imagine my surprise to discover that fully one third of the crowd fit that description. I did find him eventually, though. We had a good laugh about it.