Muumuu

Marvin had just returned from holidaying in Hawaii. As was his custom when visiting a new place, he immersed himself in the local culture. It didn’t surprise me to see he had decorated his upper right arm and shoulder with a kākau tattoo. What did surprise me, however, was that he was wearing a floral-patterned muumuu.
“You look… good,” I said to him when we caught up for dinner, trying my best to hide my stunned expression.
“Thanks,” replied Marvin, smiling. “I subscribed to a minimalist way of living whilst in Hawaii. It’s called li’ili’l. You should try it.”
For the entire dinner, Marvin told me, in great detail, every aspect of his holiday in Hawaii. Every aspect, that, except for the muumuu. But I wasn’t really listening to him. I was fixated on the muumuu. Why was he wearing it? I snapped back to the present and nodded my head when Marvin asked me if I would join him at his goddaughter’s christening the following week.
“Excellent!” said Marvin, raising his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast. To li’ili’I, and to happiness.”
As I sipped my wine, I observed Marvin. He did look happy, happier than I had seen him in a long time. But happiness, as we know, can be fleeting.

“This should be fine,” Marvin remarked when I picked him up on my motorbike. This time, he was dressed in an intricately detailed white muumuu.
“Look, Marvin,” I said. “You look great, but on the bike, I don’t think…”
“Let’s go,” Marvin said, interrupting me.
We took off, down the freeway. Marvin was on the back of the motorbike, his arms around my waist, the muumuu flapping in the wind around his legs.
“You ok back there, Marv?” I called out. Marvin patted me on the shoulder and gave a thumbs up. I hit the accelerator and we went past one hundred. Marvin tapped me on the shoulder again.
“Faster, Marv? You got it!” I increased speed and Marvin was hitting my shoulder, with more urgency, it seemed.
“Geez, take it easy, Marvin,” I called back. Marvin started pounding my back with both fists.
“Hey, what’s your problem, man?” I shouted. I looked in my side mirror and then I saw it. Marvin’s muumuu had flown up, over his head. It was covering his face and waving wildly in the headwind. His body exposed, for all to see. I hoped, rather than believed, that was wearing underwear.
“Hold on, Marvin!” I shouted and exited the freeway. As we arrived at the church, a car suddenly pulled out in front of us. I swerved and hit the brakes. Marvin went flying off the back of the bike. The muumuu lifted over his head, sailed through the air, and landed softly on the on the face of the cardinal standing on the steps of the church, in front of the aghast parish onlookers. I turned to see Marvin headfirst in the rose bush.
“Oh, that’s a relief,” I said to myself. He was wearing underwear after all, a pair of crimson bloomers.

It was a quiet ride back home. I monitored my speed to ensure there weren’t any other mishaps. The events of that day resulted in two outcomes. Marvin was no longer named godfather, which was probably for the best. And the muumuus, they were no more. So much for li’ili’I and happiness.

Photo Source