Our first morning in our new apartment, I was getting dressed and could not find a pair of underwear. After rooting through my suitcases and boxes for a few minutes, I stumbled upon a very lovely pair of lace-trimmed 100 percent silk Mary Green boy-panties. The last time I wore them, I had only one child.
"Ugh," I said, "Where's my REAL underwear?"
But since it was drop-off time, I pulled the fancy panties on and proceeded to look for a pair of pants to wear. David came in the bedroom and saw me bending over my suitcase, donning sexy underwear. It was very disconcerting for him.
"Nice panties," he said.
"They were the only ones I could find," I complained.
"I like moving," he replied. He liked it even more when the only pair of pants I could find were super-tight skinny jeans that are so damn uncomfortable I haven't worn them in half a decade. That's how it's been going all week for me -- being forced to wear the really nice, good-looking apparel I should wear in the first place but am usually too lazy and homely and old to cope with. I've been getting compliments left and right and several people have asked if I lost weight. And those people aren't even privy to the Moulin-Rouge-type baby-blue ruffled thongs I'm wearing underneath.
Moving has made me hot again. But don't worry as soon as I can locate my Park Slope Frump Uniform, i'll be back in it.