This story retold using my mother’s memories.  And believe me, she tells this one all the time.  Family dinners.  Funerals.  Weddings.  Baptisms.  Bar mitzvahs.  OK, not that last one, but only because we’re Protestant.

When I was two, my parents took me with them to go suit shopping for my dad.  The joys of an only child, I say, to be able take the kid shopping, but I digress.  Dad wanted to go to the stuffy menswear store downtown, staffed by little old dudes who’d been working there since the Truman administration, and were never actually known to have left the premises.

So Dad’s going in and out of the dressing room, trying on different suits, and the stuffy old men are harrumphing about fit and cut and this and that, and Mom’s weighing in on the whole thing, since someone under 50 had to be the fashion guru, and they’re just letting me toddle around.

About the time that Mom starts to wonder where I am, I run out of the dressing room wearing only my socks, yelling “I want to try on a suit!”  The salesmen were apparently mortified at the sight of a nearly-naked two-year-old *girl* in their establishment, and Mom hustled me back to get dressed and we were out of there in a flash.  And now that I think of it, I don’t know if Dad ever did get a suit out of the deal.

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