A short truce has been declared in the sartorial battle of The #1 Son vs The Pony.
When typing up yesterday's post, I asked The Pony to holler upstairs for the name of Fancy Friday. I always draw a blank on that like I did on the ventriloquist's dummy. I know that it is alliterative, but I can never remember exactly. Dress-Up Friday doesn't have the same ring to it.
The #1 son was all smiles in providing the information. "Hey! It's next Friday! You're going to dress up, aren't you? MOM! Make sure you lay out nice clothes for The Pony to wear on Friday!"
"I don't think he will feel comfortable with that." The groans escaping The Pony were my first clue.
"He won't care! He needs to get his class doing it. Otherwise, the tradition will die when we graduate. Nobody else wants to do it."
"Why don't you go around and ask the freshmen on your lunch shift. The Pony shouldn't have to do it by himself. It's your idea. Your Fancy Friday."
"Naw. The Pony should dress up and tell everybody in his classes about Fancy Friday."
I don't foresee this happening. Even with this rare inclusion into #1's circle, The Pony has no ambition to be a sharp-dressed man.