When the Hubs and I got married, we went to London and Ireland for our honeymoon. We packed light. I brought a skirt, some shorts, t-shirts, a bunch of impractical shoes and two pairs of pants, one of which was a faboosh pair of hot pink knit capris. I loved those pants. They were so soft and comfortable. So comfy in fact, that they doubled as pajama pants. Pretty smart packing, huh? But the Hubs HATED them, and he literally groaned every time I wore them out and about. I was finally hounded into trashing them.
I have some tactile issues and prefer to be comfortable over fashionable. I don’t know what it is, but ever since I was a kid, I have hated certain clothes. Specifically, clothes with big “cords” or big seams inside. The year my mother forced me to wear a velvet, long-sleeved shirt for school pictures is still stuck in my head. I was miserable. One, the flip side of velvet just feels wrong. And the cords in those sleeves were monstrous, making my skin crawl every time I moved. Mine was red. My brother in a matching velvet shirt of blue. What can I say, it was the ’70’s.
I also hate denim. Just the word – “denummmmm.” Yuk. Talk about cords! And the way the waistband of jeans feels against my skin, chafe chafe chafe. So I embrace it every few years or so when leggings, jeggings and even stirrup pants roll around!
Plastic headbands or the elastic ring ones for workouts? Impossible to wear! They make my head throb. Bathing suits with foam cups, panty hose and shiny underwear – creepy and cannot do it. No way, no how. And this will be way more than you want to know about me, but I wear my underwear inside out, so the cords are on the outside. My friends make serious fun of me, and keep telling me thong panties would solve all my problems. I don’t think they understand my issue with seams – how could a piece of elastic or string there be less … offensive?
Maybe it’s just my body. After my last baby, my stomach never flattened. Just sort of stayed kinda round and lengthened a little. My OB suggested doing some sit-ups to strengthen the muscles and lose the fat. Yeah, like that was gonna happen. It was all I could do just to get by that first year.
So now, insult has been added to injury. Not only does it feel like my clothes are always touching me, they seem to be moving and sliding down me all the time. I bought a belt. Guess what? I can feel it touch my skin when I ratchet the waist of my jeans or shorts up so they don’t slide off. I really miss my maternity pants… .
I invested in a few nice summer dresses, but I have noticed if you wear a dress, people expect you to do your hair and stuff. Dude. It is too hot for all that nonsense. So back online I went, and I found these glorious shorts at Lands’ End. They are go-with-everything khaki. Suuuuuper soft. And knit. With an elastic waistband!!! YES!!!! Like my pink pants, only shorter!
T-shirt, messy bun, lip gloss, orthotic flip flops and done! Except the Hubs, you guessed it, hates them. In fact, he reacted a lot like he did when I asked for a minivan.
“No, Melanie. No, no, no. You are too YOUNG for a minivan. You will figure that out after we get it home, and then you will make me roll around town in it. I will be that guy, the Lone Soccer Dad guy. With no kids in the car. No minivan, no way.”
Only insert “those shorts” for “minivan.” And you have to trust me when I tell you this, the Hubs never says no to me. So it’s always a surprise to me when he asks me to reconsider a decision. In 14 years or so, I can count on one hand the times he has not given in – the pink pants, the minivan, a pool, a third baby.
But y’all. The “sports knit” shorts feel soooo good. And it’s too hot for my yoga pants. So we have reached a compromise. I will only wear my “old lady” shorts when he is not around. So far, it has worked pretty well. At 4:30 in the afternoon or so, I change and throw all the day’s dirty dishes into the dishwasher. I yell at the kids until they pick up the floor and put all the cushions and throw pillows back onto the furniture. I hide the Sonic Blast cups.
The Hubs comes home to a fairly clean house and a wife who is waiting at the door with a cocktail in hand. Of course, the drink is for me, but you get the picture. Then he can continue to pretend that he is married to a sweet young thing who spends her days tenderly caring for his babies at home instead of his potty-mouthed wife who spends too much time online shopping (also known as “working” at my house) and considers the crock pot gourmet meal-making.
See? Compromise: it’s the key to a happy marriage. I will tell you what else is key to a happy marriage – separate bathrooms! But more on that another time.
So, I wanna know … do YOU have any old lady shorts? Or a minivan? What do you have that says comfort and convenience over style?