I thought it was a long shot. I was thinner by definition. However, the early part of the new century was all about relaxed fit flares with lots of stretch. And men don't have hips. I would have been wise to keep both factors in mind before I put my money where my spandex was.
Long story longer, he won. He slipped my super low-rise jeans easily over his legs and we never spoke of that day again.
Until tonight. Shooter is obsessed with her toy tape measure and decided to measure my rear while I stood at the sink washing dishes. Mr. T made a passing joke, and it was on. Somehow I found myself reverting back to my early 20....something self and I bet him, once again, that he couldn't fit into my pants.*
*Note: this is an entirely different scenario than getting into my pants, which I assure you, will not happen for awhile, largely in part due to the events of tonight.
Before you go blasting my naivete and telling me I deserve whatever was coming to me, keep a few things in mind:
1) After that first pants-trading (except not trading since I didn't wear his) incident, I gained roughly 50 pounds. And then a few years later, I lost that weight and more and there was a time where I was almost dainty by comparative standards to my original size. Despite bearing two kids, I'm still clearly living in that fantasy world.
2) There were no such thing as skinny jeans in 2003. Jessica Alba had never sashayed own the street in a tapered cut. I figured the odds were definitely in my favour this time as there is no way - no way - the narrowest cut of my jeans would even go over one of his thighs.
3) I'd had a glass of sparkling wine. It's my kryptonite. My inhibitions were lowered.
Summary: I owe Mr. T ice cream. And yes, the irony that we bet ice cream on how our pants fit is not lost on me. I had a few brief moments of utter panic after he successfully zipped them up and strutted around the living room in victory (though I can promise you if I'd asked him to bend over and pick Cookie Monster up from the floor, I may have had to call the jaws of life to come rescue him).
This little experiment did nothing for my self esteem. The day you have to admit your husband's ass looks better than yours in your own jeans is a one of sad defeat.
This is not going to turn into a sermon about accepting your body and being a positive role model for your own children. Mostly because other people have already expressed that sentiment better than I could.
Nor is it going to be an epiphany, wherein I realize that I have birthed two beautiful children and run several half-marathons and I'm so strong and that's the new beautiful (and it goes on like this). Because sometimes my beautiful children are more frustrating than life partners who fit into the Ashley Ultra-Skinny Cut better than I do, and most Fridays, cocktail hour is the new beautiful and the best part of my day.
No, this is valuable education about a) Leaving your dirty dishes because let's be honest, that's what sparked this fuse and b) choosing your battles more carefully and checking your bank account before committing to spending $8 that would have bought you a bangs trim and a coffee if you'd played your cards right. And gone on a few more early morning runs instead of hitting the snooze button for the better part of a month.
Consider this a hard lesson learned.
And make love to the camera.