In the bleachers, comfort trumps style

You'd be hard pressed to find a woman as classy as my friend Louise.

She is always dressed to the nines. Her hair looks great, her clothes are impeccable and her makeup would have a cosmetologist asking for beauty tips. Throw in a pair of slim slacks and fashionable shoes and you have a sophisticated package that is our very own and dear Louise.

Just the other night we gave that gal a ride to a football game in a neighboring town. Sadly enough, the night was chilly, the wind was merciless and the clouds hung low and heavy with impending rain.

Being a woman of sound mind and body, I dressed the part of a vagabond. Old jeans, comfy sneakers, and I completed the look with hair reminiscent of a certain boxing promoter.

"Say girl," Louise asked as she took in my look, pausing for a moment on my lips that were caked with Carmex lip balm, "Whatcha got going on there?"

"It's gonna rain," I responded, as I tried to smooth my wind-blown hair. "You know that, don't you?"

"Well, you know they won't play if it's raining," she remarked with the innocence of a child. When she saw the look on my face, she began to doubt her own statement and asked, "Will they?"

"Oh, honey," I responded, "football is run by men for men. They don't care about rain, sleet, snow or adverse weather conditions. Nothing short of a lightning bolt coming down from the heavens would stop a football game."

Having spent many a night on cold bleachers in extreme conditions, I could say with the best of confidence, "And I am not making that up."

As we stood at the back of my cherished Suburban with the wind whirling at our beings, I dressed Louise. With the love that you give a child as you prepare him for a day in the snow, I handed her an old sweatshirt to pull over her stylish suede jacket, a tattered scarf and a stocking cap complete with a large yarn ball on the top.

Then I handed her a coat, a bright yellow rain slicker and a two pair of waterresistant mittens.

When we found our place in the stands, I gave her an old quilt and instructed her to wrap it around tight. I then did the same with my own Sesame Street comforter, and took the time to call out to a friend who was behind us, "Hey, Jojo, does this quilt make my butt look big?"

I then turned my attention back to Louise and happily handed her a large trash bag. It didn't exactly complement her shoes, but the slicker wasn't doing her any fashion favors either.

She took the bag and asked as she stifled a sob, "What, pray tell, is this for?"

"To keep your quilt dry," I responded with an eye roll before I added, "Duh!"

As the team went into a shotgun formation, I clapped with mitted hands. As our boys tackled their opponents, I screamed into the rain, and by the end of the first quarter, Louise was looking less like a model and more like one of my vagrant homies and was not enthused as I held up my hand for a high-five and said, "Come on, girl, don't leave me hanging!"

"Are you insane?" she asked with all the enthusiasm she could muster. "Is there something in your coffee besides cream, and if so, why aren't you sharing? I'm cold, I feel old and I have a lovely couch at home that is calling my name."

She then began to mumble in the drizzle, "Why did I not encourage my kids to take interest in indoor competitions such as chess or Parcheesi?"

When no one answered her inquisition, she tugged on my parka and said, "My body just was not designed to withstand subzero temps or 50-mile-per-hour winds. I would pay top dollar for a cup of cocoa if it didn't require me to stick a hand out. Do you suppose if we got up and went to the car that they'd call the game due to a lack of interest?"

She wanted to start a protest. She made plans to picket the sidelines with blow horns and perhaps carry a large sign that said, "Stop the madness!"

She's a hoot, that Louise.

I hear that tomorrow night's game promises more of the same. For the sake of entertainment, I may bring her a pair of impeccably classy chore boots to complete her ensemble.

That ought to bring the game of football to a whole new level of entertainment.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.