"Do you notice anything different?" I asked, spinning and pirouetting around the bedroom like a four-year old preparing for a dance recital. Except I never took a dance lesson in my life, so I was jumping around and looked more zoo monkey meets crack, smokes it and gets all erratic and twitchy instead of graceful White Nights Mikhail Baryshnikov.
"Hmm?" Mike was mildly interested.
"Different? What's different about me?"
"You got your haircut. It looks very nice."
"No. But, thanks! I'm using this new hair product..."
He cut me off. "New shirt from Target?"
"No! But, does that mean I can go buy one?"
"No. Your boobs. They're bigger!"
"Ugh!" That was an incredibly low blow from the man I love. I've been petitioning my husband for a lift for three years now. I even started my own FB page to lobby him. But, he's resisted. As a result, I'm destined to grow old sporting a chest rivaled only by a 12-year-old boy.
"Let me give you a hint. According to my Snapple bottle cap..."
Mike rolled his eyes. I lean on Snapple tops like he does The Wall Street Journal. He hates that 90% of my learning comes from a cap. The other 10% is from Jon Stewart, of course.
I tried again. "According to my Snapple bottle cap, pilates make you look taller."
"Since when have you been doing pilates?"
"You're missing the point. Do I look taller?" I was on my tiptoes, hands outstretched to the ceiling. I looked like a complete moron.
"How many classes have you taken?" He was looking down at me like a schoolmarm ready to call bull shiz on my story. If a ruler was around, I was sure he'd rap me silly with it.
"Two. Whaddya think? Taller? Am I gaining on you?" I pretended to do a layup on an imaginary hoop.
"Don't believe everything you read." And with that, my hopes of being an Indian runway model ended.
Oh, snap. Hot husband ain't gonna get me down. If Snapple says it, I'm a believer. Look out Milan, here comes Yo Mama.
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