::OH NO HE DI-IN'T! ::
In dire need of more workout clothing storage space, today I judge-and-juried my underwear, swimwear, pajamas, and t-shirts. Some would continue to be my friends, others would face their fates with new wearers at Goodwill.
In Pajamaland, I hold up a green Beck t-shirt, size L, that I bought at a concert in 1996. It's too big to wear on a daily basis, but I still wear it to sleep, because I love Beck, green t-shirts are cool, and the shirt has a ghost-tail of reverie streaming from it.
"I think I'm going to finally get rid of this," I tell Austin, who is assembling a giant Ikea wardrobe in our bedroom for his clothes. Clearly sad to see it go, I hold it up to my chest to "wear" it one more time, and give it one last chance: "Unless you want it."
"What size is it?" -- "Large." -- "Probably not... But think of it this way: one day, you'll be pregnant..."
"...and you'll want some loose-fitting shirts around."
I wasn't surprised by the idea of being pregnant one day; the practicality of his statement was pretty undeniable. I will need shirts that accommodate a beach-balling abdomen. But my mouth stood dilated (past 10 centimeters).
The fact that it came from him shocked the hell out of me.