a good discription
Matching outfits. It was inevitable.
At home in Toronto, we’re pretty good about checking we’re not leaving the house looking like we’re in the same theater group. To date, we’ve averted more than a few versions of our own acts of terror where, both arriving at the door to leave for a dinner party in blue, black or red, one of us grudgingly accepts it’s their turn to change, and runs upstairs to reassert his/her own identity to avoid showing up, smiling, wearing the same colours, like two lunatics: “Do you want some wine, Marc?”, our host would ask. “I’ll have whatever Rose has. We drink whatever the other one drinks.”, I reply smiling, with eyes a little too wide.
And, truth be told, we maintained pretty good standards while backpacking – even though we only had five different shirts to help differentiate ourselves. On the mountain, however, the higher…
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