When Did I Become A Walking Sitcom Cliche?

The other day, while getting ready for work, I surveyed the small amount of clean work clothes in my closet.  Unfortunately for my already limited work wardrobe, Blake and I like to do laundry in one load per week increments.  Basically, a load will go in the washer.  Sit there for a day or two.  Be moved to the dryer and a new load inserted into the washer.  They will then both sit there for approximately 5-7 days, the wash periodically being re-run (so as not to grow mold, of course), and the dryer being started and restarted multiple times with the intention to fold the laundry wrinkle-free.  So, yes.  We have giant piles of dirty laundry and very little clean clothes at all times.  At this point, my clothing options were at a dire minimum, so my options consisted of a tweed skirt (no way, its the middle of the summer and just thinking about wearing tweed would probably make me sweat), my suit pants (wool), and a dubious pair of khakis – which barely fit me in the best of times (read – skinnier times).  I settled on the khakis, and began getting ready for work.

I smooshed myself into the hateful khakis and eyed myself in the mirror.  The pants weren’t astonishingly tight, but listen, I do not like to wear things that are remotely tight on me, ever.  I like flowy and comfortable.  I change into sweat pants the moment I get home from work because I like elastic waist bands.  (Lucky Blake!)  Every dress I have ever worn of my own choosing has no shape except for that of a bag.  That is the best shape.  So anyways, the fit of these khakis is borderline, but I have no other real options, so I walk over to the full length mirror next to the bed.  I stare at myself for about 2 more minutes before yelling, “Blake!  Blake!!!  Blake, wake up!!”  He responds with a muffled, “yes?”  (note:  I am already cranky about the status of these pants and my thighs).  I snap, “Open your eyes!”  He does.  I then ask, “Do these pants look too tight on me?”  Poor Blake.  He has not yet learned the lesson the my mother learned back in The Great Weight Gain of 2001 (I had torn my ACL and spent the next 6 months “recovering” by sitting on the couch and eating krispy kreme donuts.  My mother and I went shopping for jeans and nothing in my size seemed to fitting me.  When I asked her if I looked like I had gained weight, she responded with a truthful, “Yes, probably a little bit.  I think we need to go up a size.”  She lived to regret that honesty.  I think both her and the employees of the Gap learned a little lesson about what kind of honesty I really want regarding my weight.)  Blake blinked his eyes and stared at me for something approaching 55 seconds.  He cocked his head like he was going to begin letting me know that the pants were indeed a little too tight (in my opinion).  He never got the chance.  I yelled, “I know what you are thinking!  My pants are too tight!  I am too fat for these pants!”  while ripping the pants off and tossing them across the room.  He immediately became alert (his “Danger!” sense just a little bit off…if only he had realized the precarious situation before he paused for too long).  He sat up and said, “What?  Kristi, I just woke up.  My eyes were still focusing (a likely story).  I don’t even know what you just asked me.”  It was way too late for that.  Blake spent the whole morning following me around, insisting that his eyes couldn’t focus fast enough and that I should wear the khakis.  I ended up wearing wool pants and sweating profusely on my walk to and from work.  The hateful khakis ended up hidden from myself in the guest bedroom closet (this is my habit…when pants stop fitting me, I hide them somewhere so I don’t torture myself by trying them on over and over again daily to see if I have lost any weight). 

After I calmed down and thought about what an awesome blog entry my ridiculousness would make, I realized that being married has somehow morphed me into the female character from some sitcom.  And not a cool sitcom.  A lame one.