Last night, Darling Husband's work hosted a booth at a community festival. There was a photo booth with costumes, frisbees and glow-in-the-dark jewelry. We were ready to rock.
I put on a super cute outfit: a safari-inspired shirt with short-shorts which to wear I have suffered through massive bouts of up-and-down the driveway lunge sessions. My bucket list for the summer was to wear those. The fact that I could check that off the list before Labor Day made the whole summer worthwhile.
When I got there, DH threw a huge, bright blue tee-shirt at me.
"Put that on," he instructed.
His logo blared from about 10-yards of fabric.
That is about as bad as asking me to slap a name tag on a cashmere sweater.
"I am not wearing that." I tossed it back to him.
The look he gave me made it clear that, yes, in fact, I was.
So, this damn thing (a Men's Medium) not only made me look 60-pounds heavier but hung to my knees. Since my shorts ended about a foot earlier, you do the math.
My options were to tuck the excess 5-yards into the shorts giving me an oh-so-flattering pregnant-with-a-tire look OR to let it hang down thus inciting a fantasy that I was wearing nothing under the shirt.
I went with Option B. I would like to think the line of old men at out booth was a coincidence, but maybe it was just for the frisbees.