December 28, 2011
Last night, my sister and brother-in-law (who are visiting us this week from Michigan) watched our kids so my husband and I could go shopping.
I don't know what is worse--taking my kids to the mall or my husband.
Every time I turned around, he was somewhere where he wasn't supposed to be--in the Apple store, trying on sunglasses at a well-stocked kiosk, and gazing lustily at cinnamon rolls in the food court.
"We're supposed to be here buying you new work clothes," I reminded him. I tapped my watch. Our time was short.
Part of the problem with this year's shopping expedition is that my husband likes to wear pants and dress shirts that are at least one size larger than his true size.
"Imagine this with a belt," he said, as he emerged from a dressing room clutching a pair of pants at the waist so they wouldn't fall down to his knees.
"People would think you lost twenty pounds if you wore clothes in the right size," I told him.
My husband pointed out that he doesn't care if the secretaries in his office think he is fat. He is more interested in wearing slacks that give him the same comfort and mobility as sweatpants.
"These pants are way too tight," he complained as he crouched down on the ground and spread his legs like he was doing the splits.
I was not impressed. "You act like you are going to be doing Jane Fonda workout videos in those clothes," I said. "All you do all day is sit at a desk."
"I feel like I am wearing a straight jacket," he griped when he put on the shirt.
"You no longer look you just stepped out of a 90s rap video," I corrected.
After a long standoff, we reached a compromise. He agreed to buy a pair of pants and a single dress shirt in his proper size if I agreed not to make him wear them until March.
The next two months has been declared a designated period of mourning.