My perfekt husband Randy is my personal shopper. See, I HATE SHOPPING! I know, it’s against everything womanly. One of the X’s must have fallen off my chromosomes. Or the shopping gene slipped through the evolutionary filter. I dunno. But truth be told, I go into a store and am so overwhelmed by the choices, I FREAK OUT and leave after five minutes. If there are sales racks, I’m out in two. I’m like Robin Williams in MOSCOW ON THE HUDSON where he played that Russian sax player who defected to the U.S. and then hyperventilated in the supermarket, completely overwhelmed by the number of toilet paper options that faced him.
We joke that in some ways, Randy is the woman in our relationship. Before we were married Randy was the lone guy in a sea of women at the “Day After Christmas Super Sale” at 6am. He doesn’t do it anymore because since becoming a dad, sleep has become more precious to him that 75% off a Calvin Klein suit.
Anyway, recently I felt it was time to “refresh my wardrobe”. You know that feeling, right? We all get it. One day you walk into the closet and the stuff that was perfectly fine yesterday suddenly seems so last year and so ready for Goodwill.
This of course meant GULP! shopping. I begged Randy obliged me and came with me to pick out some clothes. This process entails him quickly scanning the racks, pulling out stuff, shoving it in my arms and waiting while I try it on.
So anyway, on our last shopping trip, I went to one of those little boutiques my friend Patrice told me about. You know, full of cute yet reasonably priced trendy stuff.
Normally Randy is spot-on in his choices. But this time, Randy picked out a pair of those JUICY sweat pants. The ones I see some of the moms wear at pick-up but I’ve never had the courage to pull over my Beyonce-esque bottom. I balked. He insisted I try them on (part of his campaign to help me become more hip). So I tried them. And all I could see was that they made me look more hippy—and I don’t mean in a granola kind of way. I told him they didn’t work for me. They only worked for those moms with yoga butts. I NEVER had a yoga butt. Not even BK (before kid). I said they made my butt look too big. And that’s when he said it:
“THEY DON’T MAKE YOUR BUTT LOOK ANY BIGGER THAN YOUR JEANS DO”
Oh, yes he did. It was innocent I assume. I HAVE to assume it because I’m too tired to figure out which CDs are mine and who’ll get Julia on Thanksgiving.
So I looked at him, smiled through gritted teeth and JAMMED those freaking skinny ass yoga butt sweats back on the rack!
RANDY: I assume that’s a no.
ME: Assume everything’s a NO for the next few nights.
I bought some tops.
Maybe next time, I’ll see if one of my girlfriends will go shopping with me. I know I can count on them NOT to be HONEST. Not where butts are concerned.