Every girl needs a shopping buddy. Someone to tell her what looks good, what makes her butt look fat, and what should never have been taken off the hanger. I have a few of those, but of them all, my husband might be my favorite.*
Why? Because when he’s encouraging me to buy things, I know I’m not going to get in trouble for it later.
And that’s exactly what he did this weekend.
Seems he was sick of seeing me dressed in my jeans and assorted Kohls shirts. Not that there’s anything wrong with Kohls clothing. But I’ve always been something of a clotheshorse—one with a taste for designer duds (preferably purchased on sale, of course).
And Kohls? Is sadly lacking in the designer department.
So when we found ourselves at the mall, sans baby, he steered me toward Macy’s and told me to shop (yes, really). I, of course, headed straight for the clearance racks. After all, we have a baby! And a mortgage! And bills to pay! And besides, I’m still not back at my fighting weight. Why buy “real” clothes?
At least, that’s what I told him. But he wasn’t having it.
Instead, he buzzed around, looking for things he thought would look nice on me (he managed a clothing store for a few years, so he’s actually good at it) and pointed me toward the dressing room.
When I saw the price tags (no red clearance stickers in sight) I sputtered, but all he said was, “just try them on.”
So I did, luxuriating in the delicious new clothes smell that wafted around me.
And what I saw in the mirror? Had me pinching myself, wondering if I was dreaming.
Necklines made the most of my still decent boobs. Shirts nipped in at my waist. Hemlines landed where they were supposed to. And the fabrics? Felt fabulous on my skin—no polyester in sight.
In other words, I looked good. Something I hadn’t been sure I was capable of anymore.
By the time we were done, I had a huge stack of yeses…a pile far larger than our budget allowed. I started to put it all back, but Brian intervened.
‘You should get this,” he said, pointing to a pretty shirt. “And this. And this. And especially this.”
“I can’t get that. It’s like eighty dollars. I could get three whole outfits at Kohls for that price.”
“Will they fit like this does?
“Then get it.”
“Okay, but no complaining about how much I spent later.”
“I won’t complain if you promise not to scowl at yourself in the mirror when you put this on.”
“Oh, and if you really want to show me how much you appreciate me, you could wear those six-inch heels you have in your closet.”
I just rolled my eyes and brought my booty up to the register before he could change his mind.
And now? My closet actually contains a few things that make me feel—and look—good.
Proving that after seventeen years, my husband still knows the way to my heart (and hooker heels). Who says romance is dead?
*Mandatory suck-up statement.