Rib Melons

Yoga pants, T-shirt, socks. Hair held hostage in a ponytail. My uniform of late. Is that bad? I wasn’t sure so I asked my husband.

“Sweetie,” I said. “Do you find my attire boring? I mean, until I figure out what I’m doing career-wise, this is what you see me in everyday.” I swept my hand down the length of my body, thrust out a hip, and tried to look chic. The cat hair stuck to the material below my knees was downplayed.

He eyed me up and down. Up and down. He pondered. And then, in what can only be described as an act of support, he tucked a finger under my T-shirt’s neckline and peered down at my breasts. “Nope,” he said. “Not boring.”

I swatted him away. “No, really. Do you ever want to see me a little more gussied up when you come home? Not June Cleaver gussied, but at least something more than… this?” Another hand sweep followed.

His eyes still hadn’t risen higher than my chest. A glaze had formed and I knew he wasn’t listening any longer. He was lost in possibilities for the evening.
The knowledge my husband still likes the rib melons in my garden of delight? Yeah, the best part of my day.