Monday, January 04, 2016

He's a Keeper

I am on the elliptical at a fairly leisurely 5.3 mph pace. Let's see if I can truly multitask and exercise while blogging. 

I remembered the mildly funny story I wanted to tell you yesterday when the bubbly obscured my memory. 

I had the unrivaled pleasure of spending two hours all by myself at a semi-decent/sort-of-okay mall out-of-town on Saturday where I found some of the adorable Olivia collection at Gymboree on sale for $9.99 (I KNOW), tried on everything at the Gap and bought nothing because it all sucked even though it was all 50% off the ticket price and then another 30% off your total purchase at the checkout, spent a ton of time in Sephora thinking about how to best cover the ravages of my 37 years of resting bitch face (and, let's be honest, active bitch face, too), and hit up the Victoria's Secret semi annual sale which is pretty much the only time of year I buy new bras. 

Ben and I do a ton of laundry-- 3 to 4 loads a day depending on our whites situation-- but we are actually pretty shitty at sorting it effectively, remembering to wash clothes with cold water, and stocking those color catching sheet things that are made for people who are bad at sorting. As a result, most of my underwear eventually turns greige. This is really not something I care about because I have 4 kids and have been with Ben since the nineties, so as long I don't have bra back fat and a VPL, I feel really good about myself. 

I thought I was being really practical at the sale because I bought a plain black bra, a plain beige bra, and blah beige underwear, planning ahead for bad washing. But Ben, ever the optimist, was really excited when he picked me up (at Corner Bakery, where I enjoyed soup, salad, and the really fascinating Wright brothers biography I am reading) and saw a promising Victoria's Secret bag loaded with fun-looking pink tissue. I assured him I only bought mom underwear, but he sweetly thought I was just hiding something racier  from the kids. 

This was, obviously, wishful thinking.

But the moral is actually a really happy one. How lucky am I to have been with the same guy since Third Eye Blind was on the radio who still wants to see me in pretty underwear and doesn't care that I always look a little bit pregnant and that my former almost-champagne-glass boobs are now definitely champagne-FLUTE boobs?

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