I did a really, really good thing yesterday. I gave my cinnamon roll to a skinny person at work.
Even though it was an important test of my psyche in which my self-image beat out my cravings — a symptom of an addict on the brink of relapse except my addiction to sweet baked morning carbs always allows for one a day (I don’t think I believe in cold quitting) — giving away my cinnamon roll to a skinny person was like leaving my puppy on the doorstep of a lonely person.
I have ill-intentions when it comes to other people and food. I resent skinny people, they make the rest of us look large. So feeding them has become one of my SMART goals. I make homemade cookies and nachos and I buy boxes of bagels from Groupon. This was the first motivation for re-gifting my cinnamon roll. The second was that I was going to a special Lululemon sale yesterday afternoon and wanted my conscience guilt-free when I leave with too many bags. If a cinnamon roll is lounging on my conscience’s love seat, there is barely a foot stool left for my Lulu purchases to sit on. They need more room.
That’s point #1 of this post. The second is that every relationship boils down to two very important conversations had between domestic partners: 1) the DTR in which you decide which one of you is more emotionally damaged or attached to the relationship, and 2) the moment you decide you feel confident enough in your love for one another that your willing to stretch the domestic terms of engagement.
Pop quiz! If your partner finds themself in the incredibly fortunate situation in which their celebrity crush is into them, do you: A) freak out and hail mary an ultimatum, or B) give them a hall pass to get a little crazy, let it slide.
Think carefully because this is a very important term of engagement you’re establishing in your relationship. It speaks heaps to the amount of trust, honesty and confidence you have in your partner. It is also telling of your own secret wishes and your ability to compartmentalise aspects of your life.
For the first year of our marriage I pretended like I wouldn’t ever need to have written permission from my husband to practice some outrageous flirting with David Beckham should the occasion ever arise. Why would I need that when I’m perfectly happy in my marriage!?!
I’ve since grown up (which is kind of funny since I’ve also moved to Never Never Land). Part of becoming an adult means realizing that if your husband ever meets Mila, Jen, or Scarlet, you’d be holding him back by not being a little more open minded. I’m not interested in clipping my husband’s wings when I know that man was made to fly.
So our domestic terms of engagement have been updated recently. We don’t name names. Because we’re above that. And I now pin pictures of celebrities in between home decor, cupcake recipes, and DIY crafts.
Something else happened last weekend that has caused me to go all liberal on my marital inhibitions. We were at the Lululemon store because it’s the new arcade. I wanted to buy some running socks for the 9k I was about to clock and didn’t want to sweat me up a new blister on one of my foots. The store is just two blocks from home downtown… a very sneaky trick from a marketer I bet — putting Lulu so close to where I live. It’s like they’ve cookied my life.
So we’re in the store and I’m staring at things doing mad mathematics in my head to calculate how many books I have to give up buying on my Kindle to buy something else here. Then a nice skinny girl in cute pants turns to my husband, she clearly recognizes him, and says, “Oh! Hi!!” all in a sweet, innocent surprised voice that is all really just a cover up for her insecurities as an only child. If looks could kill I’m sure my glare would’ve done some damage. She sees me and says, “Oh, ohhhh… are you guys…?” and she says the rest with her pretty little eyes. In my mind, I’ve already screamed at her and called her some nice colorful names just to make sure she knows who’s boss. I have a history of creating arguments in my head. Colin tells her I’m his wife and I’ve decided I’m too overweight to call her any names because I’m the real loser in the end of that game.
Turns out she was the chick that helped Colin awhile back when he was in the store to buy me a gift card. (I was mad about something stupid I’ve already forgotten about and needed an apology present. It worked!) We pay for my socks (the best effing socks in the world!!! My feet have never been so happy and hugged) and she comes up to us and she’s like, “Are you guys around on Wednesday?” Normally at this point in the conversation I usually try and make something up like “oh, I’m not sure, I need to check my calendar” because I don’t want to be invited to a hike or a small group. She pulls out a little scrap of paper from the Swiss Army pocket of her vest that I liked very much and writes her name and says, “At 6 on Wednesday at the store uptown there is a private sale. You guys can be my guests!!”
I saw frosting and rainbows and pony’s with sparkly tails. And I saw dollar signs. Lots of them. We somehow managed to get ourselves invited to a private sale! It’s like the old lady at McDonalds just walked by with the free kiddie cones but more like a pissed-off car salesman has decided to go rogue and give away a few Maseratis.
And that’s when I let my mind open more fully and decided Colin can add all female Lululemon staff to his “hall pass list”. Because those chicks, I’d let them all slide.
(EXTRA READING if you really want to hear point #3 of this post)
On Wednesday we got ourselves out of bed at 6 to hit the gym. Before you give us an award, I’ll tell you that before we left we got ginger slices from the coffee shop across the street. And just in time to be 80 seconds over on our parking validation. This is the worst possible position you can put yourself in a parking garage where nobody is happy and small children are ran over daily. It also doesn’t help that the car holding you up at the front is a ’94 Accord previously owned by a grandma who donates to the endangered birds society. That car is ours. The BMWs and Audis don’t think this is as funny as we do. When I’m rich I promise to keep my sense of humor in tact and I’ll pity the Hondas and Yotas because I’ll know where I came from. <– That is one frickin’ important lesson. Learn it well, friends. And if I ever get my G65, you can ride with me and park in my reserved spot in the parking garage.