Putting on my married lady pants

Yesterday I had one of those days where I had amazing feats of accomplishments, one after another, except that the accomplishments themselves were so boring that they practically brought tears to my eyes.  I wanted to share my amazing level of accomplishments with my husband, and so I started to list off all the things I had done, and yet before I even had listed a quarter of the things I noticed his eyes glazing over and his head nodding.  I could practically see that he was thinking about work, or a meeting, or possibly an episode of Top Gear while I described my day: I walked the dog and then I went to Costco and then I put everything away and separated all the chicken breasts into individual containers for freezing…oh wait, before that I stripped all the beds and washed the sheets…and then I went to get the kids for lunch…

My husband’s head did snap to attention when, between describing “preparing vegetables for dinner” and “weeding the garden” I mentioned that I washed the windows.  I a) got the ladder out of the garage and b) got ONTO the ladder, both ALL BY MYSELF.  He, for some reason, found this information alarming.  And yet I still have both legs and an uncracked skull and also I can see out my window without rage about all the water spots and dust, so it’s a winning situation all around. 

I did not mention to him that I may have hit the minivan with the ladder whilst fetching it from the garage and also that I may have put a dent in the garage doorjamb whilst putting it back in the garage.  I DID clean the damn windows myself.  I feel like I need an award.  Maybe a badge for my sash.

I think what I will do is pour myself a large Friday-style glass of wine and put on what my sweet young girlfriend calls “married lady pants” – a certain kind of comfortable pants that give off that vibe of “we have a legally binding contract”, as opposed to “Let’s listen to Barry White and get it on all night long”.  In my case, such pants are pink pajamas that sport a hummingbird motif, although I’m pretty sure my husband finds said pajamas to be sexy as hell.  He probably thinks “Wow, those hummingbird pants are hot.  Can’t wait to see what they look like on the floor.”  Or so I tell myself. 

The other night I was sitting on the couch in my pink hummingbird pajamas with a mud masque on my face and whitening strips on my teeth, and I felt a teensy bit sorry for my husband.  My friend Clara wrote a post about the secret to a good marriage is accepting that the two of you make an engine, part gasoline, part spark.  Cannot help but think that my whitening strips that make me lisp a little bit is NOT doing my part for spark.  Freshly whitened teeth are nice though, so I’m going to go ahead and give myself half points.