Here is the problem with having a very stylish husband: two years into this pandemic, I look like I’m about to clean the garage while Rand walks around like something out of a damn manual on how to become more dashing with every passing decade.  To be fair, the delta between our clothing has always been a little bit off – I’ve always dressed a little bit like I was recovering from a cold, whereas he looks like this almost immediately after waking up:

I mean, what the hell.

But I was determined on this trip to not be outdone, or at least, not at much. Not once would someone ask if I’d left the house in a hurry because it was on fire. This was my solemn vow. And besides,

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