I was getting dressed after my shower today, and already regretting the "dinner" I ate last night when That Stud Muffin I Married was off in NYC and I was alone with the kids: a few heapin' handfuls of crackers, a Diet Coke, and then after the kids went to bed, two, count' em, two bowls of ice cream: Brigham's The Curse Reversed (vanilla with chocolate covered peanuts and fudge swirl) and The Big Dig (vanilla with caramel swirls and chocolate chunks.)
You know, the usual woman-with-no-witnesses-around-dieting-backlash-cornucopia-of-crap. Carbs, chocolate, salt--BRING IT ON, baby, because we are suffering from advanced PMS--i.e., Poppy Meltdown Status.
So today I was trying to squeeze into my jeans. And it was so. not. happening. As I tugged at them, I was thinking regretfully of the recent night I spent eating pizza and drinking beer and willing my jeans to stretch. Well, they've been washed and dried, and while they don't remember the pizza, apparently my body does. And I'm tugging at the zipper in fucking VAIN and nothing's happening. They will not zip.
Then I thought to check the label. Sure enough, these were my husband's jeans. And I stopped freaking out. See, he's not that big of a guy. He's no longer wearing the 29" waist he was sporting when we met, but he hasn't gotten THAT big. And let's face it; his hips and thighs are never going to be able to compete with mine.
So I pulled his jeans off and pulled mine on. And while I'm not happy with the final effect, I can at least leave the house without getting arrested.
Unless you're a PETA member whose main concern is the health and welfare of the local camel population. Because it does look like I'm trying to illegally smuggle one of their toes, or at the very least, carry one as a concealed weapon. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.
--P.
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