Ever had a flawless Christmas?
I don't think I have. Not as an adult, anyways. It's always something.
Since Adrian's been home, I've put on a bit of weight. I've gone from healthfully voluptuous to voluptuous with a vengeance (read: chubby). This hasn't kept Adrian from buying me clothes.
Last night after spending all day cooking (a great big breakfast in the morning, fudge, deviled eggs, cheese ball, green chili cresent roll appetizers, chocolate chip cookies, 2 pumpkin pies, and Christmas wassal, if you must know) I decided that a nice Christmas Eve shower would add to my holiday enjoyment. I took my chubby self upstairs and had a nice, refreshing shower and lubed up with some delightfully festive Suave Holiday lotion afterward.
When I stepped out into the bedroom to put on some clean clothes, I found a beautiful set of holiday PJs laid out on the bed, all red and silky and inviting. What a thoughtful, perfect gift.
I pulled on the bottoms and buttoned up the top and padded down the stairs all fresh and cheerful. It's a Wonderful Life was just starting, and I snuggled up on the couch with my husband. My left leg felt funny.
Breezy.
My pajama bottoms had developed ventilation slits from just above my knee almost up to my hip bone. My heart sunk as I looked at the shiny, frayed fabric. I showed Adrian, and the look on his face was pure disappointment. Being female, I assumed that he was disappointed with ME. He got up abruptly and headed out to the garage.
"Where are you going?" I asked, timidly. His gruff reply was, "I've got to go do something." As he rushed out the door, I asked, "Aren't you going to watch the movie?" "I've got to do something," he repeated angrily.
In tears, I raced up the stairs and crawled into bed. I fingered the rip in my holiday jammies, and noticed that my right leg felt breezy, too.
Another rip.
I took them off and put them in the wastebasket, then crawled back in to bed to cry some more, feeling fat, unloved, and all around bad. About that time I heard my husband's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He entered the bedroom with a confused look on his face.
He couldn't understand why I was upset. Apparently, the "thing he had to do" was find the sewing kit tucked away with some of his gear in the garage, and the anger I perceived wasn't anger, but focus as he tried to remember where he last saw the kit. He pulled the ripped bottoms out of the trashcan and tenderly talked me into coming downstairs with him.
He turned my PJ bottoms inside out and carefully stitched them up with loving determination. As I sat there I fretted over why the pants had torn. I've put on weight, but the jammies weren't tight. Not in the least. They were plenty loose in the legs, and they have an elastic waist. I felt so rotten about it.
He finished up his sewing, and held the pants up to inspect his handiwork. He gave the waistband a gentle tug and...
Rip!
The CROTCH of the pajama bottoms ripped before our very eyes. As sad as I was to see those beautiful pants deteriorate even more, I cannot express the relief I felt when I discovered that inferior workmanship, not my fat ass, had been the catalyst for their yuletide demise. I felt vindicated, despite never being formally accused. It was a wonderful, if disappointing, moment.
The PJ top, despite being a snugger (although not quite tight) fit, is in perfect condition, but I don't know if those damned jolly pants are salvageable. Crotchless pajamas don't exactly say "family holiday enjoyment."
I did, however, redeem myself later in the night when we discovered that Santa's Hot Wheels Gorilla Attack play set required 4 ( !! ) D batteries that we had not anticipated needing and I pulled a brand new pack of 4 D batteries out of my emergency kit that I had so carefully assembled long ago. (Hey, MIA batteries on Christmas Eve night counts as an emergency.)
It seems that the holiday pants won the battle, but not the war! Muahahahahahahahhaa.