I came across this video on Baby Sideburns’ blog today, and it was perfect timing, as I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much I’ve let my husband peek behind the curtain maybe just a wee bit too much.
You read all the time about people who don’t fart in front of their partners, or can never go to the bathroom unless the door is closed (I usually have two boys and two pugs in the bathroom with me). I’m always shocked by this, as it seems to me that you should be over that kind of thing when you get married.
Let’s rewind, though, as I also remember thinking that I’d never let myself go when I got married, either. And it’s not that I have, necessarily. I still take care of myself, watch what I eat (to a certain extent), and work out, but after doing laundry the other day, I realized I may be getting just a tad bit too comfortable. There was literally one “street clothes” outfit in the laundry, while everything else was either workout clothes or pajamas. And not the “bow chicka bow wow” pajamas either — more of the Liz Lemon variety. “Shitballs,” I thought, “I haven’t become one of those, have I?”
I guess it should have hit me when, in one week, my husband walked in on me vacuuming in nothing but a shower cap (don’t ask) and going to the bathroom while playing Words With Friends (I was on a roll). Before I got married, I remember thinking it was so great that my husband and I were each other’s comfy shoes, but I had to wonder — had I become the old slipper with holes in it that’s been half-chewed and shit on by the dogs?
It’s just that I hated all the neuroses I had while dating. You remember that scene in Bridesmaids when Kristen Wiig gets up, tiptoes to the bathroom to put on lipstick, and then creeps back under the covers so Jon Hamm thinks she woke up looking like a fresh, spring flower. Let’s just say I laughed a little too hard at that scene. We wanted our suitors to think we woke up looking like Kate Upton, we never had gas, we ate like birds, and that our number twos were actually rose petals coming out of our super toned asses. And, frankly, it was fucking exhausting. When it came to letting them get a real look at who we were, we pulled the ole Chris Brown and Rihanna on them — ain’t nobody’s bi’ness (that is how they pronounce it, right?).
I was so happy when I could let my guard down and be myself. Wear less makeup. Let one rip every once in a while. Eat that second helping of ribs while covered in so much barbecue sauce that I look like a roasted pig at a luau. Okay, maybe that last one’s going a bit far. But you get my drift.
The thing is, the transition happens slowly. You don’t go to bed one night in a Victoria’s Secret teddy and wake up in the next in your puke stained maternity clothes. It’s the gradual nature of it all that gets you. One year you’re the hot soccer mom that’s tanned and toned, and the next you’ve begun to leave your house looking like a meth-head hobo.
When I wrote the post on never doing a boudoir photo shoot, many of you disagreed with me. While I probably won’t run out and get one tomorrow, I might ease into this whole thing. I don’t want to go through the exhausting, neurotic dating phase again, but there’s gotta be a happy medium, right?
Where do you stand on all this? Let’s start with the bathroom door — open or closed?