This post was read and approved by my husband, James Weight, at 10:34 p.m….And by “approved” I mean he muttered “I don’t care. Now will you grab me another beer?”
I really wish I’d listened to that little voice inside my head solemnly advising “do NOT ask James to run out and buy underwear for you. This won’t….uh…CAN’T end well!”
But, alas, I didn’t listen. I instead chose to reassure my subconscious counsel that James is an excellent direction taker and that I’d be VERY specific in my instructions, thus insuring a positive outcome.
(Necessary background information so this story doesn’t make me seem like a sadistic “honey-do tyrant” set on embarrassing my husband.)
We were staying up in Marietta so James could play in a golf tournament and the boys and I could spend money on room service and Pay-per-view movies . Somehow between packing three iPods, an iPad, a laptop and their chargers, several days worth of clothing for four family members, eyewear, backup eyewear, on-the-road-snacks, off-the-road snacks , favorite pillows, can’t-live-without-blankies and swimsuits (just in case the hottub was open)….I forgot to pack myself any undies. (you had to see this coming).
As I type, I’m seriously wondering if continuing this story is a good idea.
Somebody’s going to:
A: get offended
B. accuse me of having poor taste
C. learn way more about my underwear preferences than they ever wanted to
D. all of the above
Actually, seems like most everyday of my life. So, I’ll continue.
ME: “Honey, I forgot undies. You have the car. Will you pick up some on your way back to the hotel? Please, pretty please? I don’t want to have to wash them in the sink. That’s so Survivor-ish. No high-wasted briefs, no multiple packs in plastic like “Hanes-Her-Way,” Something semi-cute, maybe a little lace. Oh, and I’m a size medium. I don’t care where you go. (thinking to myself “please do not go to WalMart, Family Dollar, BigLots, Dollar General or Dollar Tree.”)
Six hours later (to be read in a French narrator voice like on Spongebob.)
JAMES: (tossing a Family Dollar bag toward me) “Hey Babe, I shot four over par. And I remembered the p-p-p panties (he whispers because no guy likes to say that word).”
ME (opening bag, pulling out contents and trying to keep my facial expression balanced between “WHAT THE HELL” and congenial gratitude)
Notice, the package says “Wedgie Free!” As I point that out to James, he puts his arm around me and says “see, I did good, Baby.”
ME: “Honey, I said I wore a medium and these are in a multi-pack and the waistband will almost reach my neck. What happened?”
JAMES: “Medium? There are NO mediums! You wear a size 8 in pants. So, I bought size 8 underwear. I didn’t have my reading glasses! A weird Asian woman was staring at me! I just grabbed some.”
ME: (realizing the tragic size translation mishap.) “Medium in women’s underwear is a size 6. “
JAMES: “GEEZ! Women even play mind games in sizing underwear! What’s wrong with you guys?”
ME: (pulling out the next pair) “Well, hey, big spender! These are sort of cute. Too bad they left the sensor on.”
JAMES: “Oh, fergodsake! Here’s the receipt! Take ‘em back and buy your own damn drawers next time!”