Dear Reader,
I'm never dreaming of a white Christmas here in Sarasota, Florida, but I do get excited when my husband and I drive around the neighborhoods looking at the Christmas lights. It's been an annual tradition. This year my husband suggested we invite a close friend of ours, who doesn't have any family, to ride along.
"Suzanne, how about inviting Dianna, the two of you can sit in the back eating Christmas cookies, snuggled in quilts--I'll turn the air conditioner on--and you can listen to carols streaming through Sirius radio, and you guys can even wear your pajamas? I'll be your chauffeur."
My husband is such a thoughtful man, he spoils me (and I love it!). It's not the first time he's been my chauffeur...
...He looked handsome in his black suit, white shirt and dark tie. His shoes were polished, there was a black chauffeur's hat on his head and dark shades covered his eyes. Every woman in the hair salon was staring at the mysterious man that walked through the door, and so was I.
"Is Suzanne Beecher just about finished?" the handsome man, who sounded like my husband, asked the receptionist.
And when the receptionist told him it would be 10 minutes before I was ready to go, the handsome man, who resembled my husband, thanked her and said, "Would you please let Suzanne know that her driver is waiting outside?" And out the door he went.
I was shocked, and within minutes every woman in the beauty shop, including me, was pressed up against the front window staring at my husband, dressed in chauffeur attire, standing beside a stunning old-fashioned MG Roadster sports car.
It was my birthday and as a gift, my husband was in "character," playing the part of my personal chauffeur, and he had rented the MG Roadster for the weekend. It was a birthday I'll never forget.
After we left the hair salon, for the rest of the day my "driver" chauffeured me around town to all of my favorite boutiques and galleries. Every time we made a stop, my husband jumped out of the car and hurried around to open my door, then he took my hand and ushered me inside the store.
My personal chauffeur never went inside the store with me, that would have been a driver's indiscretion. Instead, my "guy" would go back to his "post," with his chauffeur's hat tipped ever so slightly, legs stretched out, and he'd lean up against the side of the MG Roadster and publicly wait for me. It felt like a Cinderella birthday--everyone inside the store and outside in the parking lot was dying to know, 'who was this woman with the fancy car and driver?'
Happy Anniversary to my husband (who reads my column). We're celebrating 42 years!
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
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