I heard the shocked wail from the living room and walked into the study to find my husband pointing at the screen in horror.
“How could you let me wear that sweater to the party last night? Look at me? I look like the Hindenburg mated with a red throw rug. Batten down the hatches, I need to diet! Oh my god I’m fat.”
I stood there silently while he ranted on – and when he finally looked up, I said, “Thick winter sweaters aren’t supposed to be sexy, they are supposed to be warm. In fact, I’d say you were one of the cutest men there last night.”
“That is sweet, but as the husband of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float in these pictures,” he paused to dramatically point at the monitor, then turned to me, glancing over his glasses with an unsatisfied look, ” You, my darling, you are contractually obligated to say so.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true…. I was just about to hop in the shower, how about we get you out of the clothes and I prove to you how sexy you are?”
“You always know the right thing to say when I have a fat attack.”
“Come on – before the garfield balloon catches up to you,” I said with a sneer leading him to the bedroom, hand in hand.