Wednesday, October 14, 2009
(Warning: Before I go any further into this blog there will be one mild, thinly veiled expletive used in this blog. If anyone might find this offensive, please stop reading now.)
It was an interesting morning. The hubby and I were both in odd, although somewhat bright and chipper, moods, and had been joking around all morning.
As I realize that it's getting to be about that time (to head out the door to work), I dash over to the dryer, where I just know that there's still a pair of clean blue jeans awaiting me. After all, I know that just a few days before I put two pairs in, and I've only worn one of them.
But my other pair of jeans is now suspiciously missing in action.
This used to be a problem in our household. Back in the early days of our marriage, the husband and I could wear pants almost interchangeably. When one of us needed to pull on a pair of pants in the dark without disturbing the other, there was no end to the comedic effects that we could end up with. He might find a pair of deep red Wranglers, I might find a pair of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sweats that he still fit into from his childhood years but generally only wore as pajamas. With regular blue jeans, even in the light, it was a constant battle ... what he thought might be one of his last remaining pairs of good jeans often ended up being one of the last pairs of my jeans that he hadn't ended up slipping on accidentally on his way to work. And his work was messy back then and didn't wash out well!
Perhaps thinking back on days (and sizes) gone by, I (fake) stormed into the living room where the DH was, belowing, "You haven't been wearing my jeans again, have you?"
He gave me a strange look.
"I had two pairs of jeans in the dryer," I explained. "And I know I've only worn one this week. Now, I can't find my other pair in the dryer ... "
He picks up a pair of jeans and shows them to me. "Well, these are the only blue jeans I've gotten out of the dryer," he said. "And I don't think they were yours ... not unless you've got a mighty tiny a$$."
I got a glimpse of the tag on the back, which clearly read Chic and recognized them as a pair of jeans I'd picked up back when I first began my weight loss journey.
"Mighty ... tiny ... ," I grumbled, at first with a bit of agitation. What was he trying to say? He knows how hard I've been working at this, and with at least some success. He's usually very complimentary, and it was just earlier this morning that he grabbed the baggy shirt I had been sleeping in and held it in at my waist with an admiring gaze.
"I'll show you a mighty tiny a$$," I called, now gaining confidence. I think he realized those pants were mine in the first place, and was simply issuing the challenge.
I put the pants on and danced into the bathroom as he finished getting ready for work.
"Room to spare," I sang. "Now who's mighty tiny?"