That’s a whole lot o’ woman

Ladies, I am still learning that there are some things you just don’t share with your husband.
Don’t get me wrong. I was brought up in a household where “Honesty is the best policy” was the only sentence allowed to be spelled out of a bowl of Alphabets cereal. And today, I’m forthright with Pete 98 percent of the time.
Two percent is on reserve. One percent for protecting his self-image in the morning when he asks me how his hair looks and the other one percent for the supper dish I make out of tuna that he thinks is beef.
But all that reasoning changed a couple of days ago when I told Pete what size my underwear are. I must admit I didn’t think it would come as a surprise. After all, he knows me better than anyone.
But as I discovered, he either knew the size of the merchandise and had blocked it out of his memory or always believed I had the figure of a super model.
Let’s face it, I’m a whole lot more woman than 36 inches in diameter around my hips. Save that starry-eyed notion for your next life, honey.
Granted, I wouldn’t mind if the powers that be had given me a smaller derriere, but hey, it’s what I was born with.
I’ve carried it around for almost 45 years, been conscious of since I was 15, and done the gamut of trying to reshape, redo, pull in, and lift it.
But no matter how many greens I eat, biking I do, or fattening foods I deprive myself of . . . my bumper’s circumference (including the “Buddha” left over from three children) remains at “larger than life.” And girls, as many of you darlings know, that kind of equipment does not fit comfortably into size 8,10, or even 12 underwear.
However, I am proud to say I have come to accept my figure as it was given to me. That doesn’t mean I have license to fast food and donuts, but I do buy panties with more than one ‘X’ on them.
Perhaps that was a bit too much information for my poor husband.
“How many inches are those for?” he queried, as he picked his chin up off the floor.
“About 48,” I replied, thinking nothing of it–honestly.
“48! That’s four feet!,” he said, voice going up and chin on the floor again.
I rolled my eyes and gave him the flat stare like only a wife could, and explained the facts of life to a man clearly in need of a re-conditioning.
“In this case, size doesn’t matter,” I said. “It hasn’t bothered you so far, mister.”
I must have really made an impression on him. Here and now, in the days following the BIG revelation, he’s still having trouble with the math.
How come he didn’t react this way when I returned home from Winnipeg with an inspiring story about how a female employee who worked in the lingerie department of a major department store had measured my bust line and tailored me with–at long last–a bra that fit.
When he asked what size it was and I said “40-D,” that didn’t seem to phase him one bit.
“Bonus!”, he said, with a smile.
What’s up with that?

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