It was a question every husband dreads. No, not, "If I die, will you get married again." He had finally stomach ached his way out of that one. "Oh, honey! Just thinking about life without you is so devastating." Then before she could react, "Why would you ask such a thing?" That put her off that tack completely.

It wasn't even; "Does this outfit make me look fat?" Fred, neither stupid nor uncaring for the feelings of others, had always felt honesty was not the best policy when it came to love and relationships. After all, honesty is so subject to the passion of the moment, and Fred was very careful not to reveal how little he cared about these matters. For a man to feel that way about Women's concerns is quite normal; to express such a thing is to purposely burn one's toast. That's why Fred was careful to always stick with his programmed default answer.

Well, there was that one time, though; the moment of weakness when he had foolishly conceded the outfit did, indeed, make her look fat. Such a reaction! Crying, angry tears, accusations of, "What the Hell do you know about fashion, anyway?" And it really hadn't been fair at all. Hadn't he tried to tell her she looked "just fine?" That her beauty overshadowed any outfit she could wear? Couldn't she have been happy with that? No, of course not. She had pressed him with, "Please don't just say what you think I want to hear. I really want you to be totally honest about it. Does this make me look fat?"

Well, she had ripped off the new outfit, thrown it across the room, and redressed - both herself and Fred for his callous remark. That evening had been a sullen affair. The next day, she had returned the offending garment. Fred had apologized, but she had cut him off with, "Oh, you were quite correct. It did make me look fat; Betty agreed that it did." She wasn't annoyed with Betty, however. Fred resolved to stick with the tried and true, "You look fabulous, my dear!!!"

That was why he was so taken off guard by this last particular test of his male fashion sense. "Which of the earrings do you think goes best with this outfit?" Oh, God! Now he couldn't just give with simple approval. He actually had to make a choice. Wasn't this silly? Wasn't he the one who was constantly scolded for wearing a black belt with blue jeans?

"Why would you wear that with brown shoes?"

"I'm not wearing brown shoes; I'm wearing white sneakers."

She would, then, reprimand him in a manner, which combined the tone of Jewish "Bubbie" and Catholic Nun, "But, if you weren't wearing sneakers, you wouldn't wear black shoes with blue jeans would you?"

Fred didn't want to mention that he would have thought nothing at all about wearing black shoes, and didn't understand why anyone would make such a fuss over a foot covering. He was, after all, a man; and heterosexual, though beginning to understand why some might search for alternatives. So he gave the only acceptable answer, "Because I'm a tasteless idiot."

That satisfied the moment, and probably explained why she always seemed to go with the opposite of what he would select when asked for an opinion. "Honey, please. Which earrings do you think I should wear?"

The answer was, now, incredibly clear to Fred. Since he knew -that she knew - that he had no taste in these things, his answer really didn't matter. Why agonize over giving the right response. With great relief over being freed from one form of performance stress, Fred answered with feigned conviction. "Those, those ones definitely go better."

There, now he could relax. He had shown proper concern for what was important to his wife, and had behaved as if he knew what he was doing. He had, also, inadvertently made the correct choice, thus further complicating his life. As he turned, smiling, to catch what he could of the game, her question froze him in his tracks.