Reason #29 Why My Husband Might be Gay...

I know what you are thinking. Man, this chick is crazy, she thinks her husband is gay. But, hey, I've never denied having a touch of The Crazy.

In all fairness, my belief that my husband is gay is more of a fear that when we are in middle age with grown children my life partner will look at me across the dinner table and tell me he is gay. I blame HBO. Also, I have proof.

On Sunday afternoon we ended up downtown. A place my husband avoids because it's Seattle and he can't stand The People. Whatever. It's why we live here. I try to remind him that he hates our neighbors too but he refutes that all our neighbors aren't stuffed into a teeny tiny market where everyone is mostly just browsing. We go downtown once or twice a year as a family if I'm lucky.

Sunday we intended to go to the Aquarium. Which, I won't lie, TOTALLY SUCKED. It's true. There has been all this hype about this great new exhibit. THE SEALS. Um, news flash, I can see those at the Locks. I don't need to pay $30 to look at native fish up close. Although, the starfish exhibit still totally rocks but the rest of the fish were a let down. To say the least. I was hoping for tropical and got something Pacific Northwest. But, I guess if I was expecting PNW I would have been ecstatic. In short, save your money for the street performers at the Market.

Wow where was I? Even I forgot what I was talking about.

Oh, right, the gayness of my husband.

While downtown I insisted that we visit the 3 story Nordstrom's Rack because nothing says Seattle like padding the pockets of the Nordstrom's family. No really. I swear on my life it's 3 story's and quite possibly the best bargain basement shopping you'll ever experience. There is a floor devoted entirely to discounted shoes. For women. I know, as close to heaven as I'll ever be right on the second floor of that building in downtown.

Anyway, so, it's been a while since I've bought new work clothes. Well, jeans, to be exact. And, if you remember I'm Waxing. You know, like the moon. Which can also be known as getting my fat on. But, we don't need to get technical here. And, while I have a HUGE assortment of sizes none of them fit me the way they should. They are either way too tight, too tight, way too big or just plain saggy bottom. So, I grabbed a few jeans headed into the dressing room and decided on a pair that didn't fit right but would do since I was desperate.

I placed my selection on the stroller and Bob looked at them and then at me but never uttered a word. His look was neither approving or disapproving. I know he loathes dark jeans and them jeans were as dark as they make them. I figured he was staring at them because they were dark. So, I shrugged him off.

Off we went in search of some tops. Something cute. He was scouring racks feverishly. Quite possibly enjoying himself why trying to dress his wife who thinks jeans and a tee-shirt are The Uniform for any occasion. But, I was willing to try anything he suggested, unless it required heels. That's where I draw the line. I love the way jeans and heels looks on other people. Me? Not so much. Basically because I look like a Buffoon trying to walk in them. So, no. Just....no.

Bob couldn't seem to find any tops he liked. He politely redirected the focus to the jeans. He was unaware that I had made a compromise with myself in that dressing room regarding the fit but insisted that those jeans were not for me. Dark denim, he insisted, should remain on thin girls. I took this way better than he anticipated. He was tiptoeing ever so lightly around the subject weary that I could pounce and take him down at any second.

I asked for his suggestions because the second he said dark denim should remain on thin girls suddenly the Oprah where she had fashion experts explain jeans to the entire audience popped into my head, I vaguely remembered the exact same advice.

My husband does not watch Oprah.

But, he was right.

I grabbed his selections he reminded me to ignore the size and go with the fit. I threw caution to the wind. I was amazed at the difference between the jeans. I had piles. The sizes varied. In the end, it was painless. Either they fit or they didn't. He insisted he be the final judge.

I've never loved a pair of jeans more. No, really. And, the ones I loved were even cheaper than the pair I was going to get that didn't really fit but would do that would end up in the bottom of my closet in a few weeks never to be heard from again.

And that folks is reason #29 why my husband might be gay!