Like the other week, when we were on vacation, Jeff goes, "I want to take pictures of you wearing a pretty dress." And I was like, "Um, all I brought is jeans and a variety of stained tank tops, seeing as we're on vacation. And also a sports bra that holds an entire bottle of Zinfandel."
"Well, I'll buy you a pretty dress, then," he said, and I think I may have actually made the cha-ching motion with my elbow, because it's not every day I get rewarded for being a slob.
Anyway, Jeff and I went dress shopping -- which he enjoys perhaps more than a straight man should -- but couldn't find anything that's both wearable and less than $100. We finally ended up at a little discount store, where I spied something soft and ruffly and lavender on a rack outside.
"This isn't so ba--" I began, but then gasped and dropped my hand.
"What?" Jeff asked.
"It's..." I started backing away slowly. "It's a... romper."
Jeff's eyes lit up. "I'm getting it!" he said, and bounded off to the cash register before I could stop him. (It was only $20, a price I would soon realize was insultingly high.)
That evening's photo shoot required some liquid courage on my part, and even then I only posed for a few shots before I had to jump out of the romper and take a hot shower, scrubbing the sin off of me with a loofah.
I made a valiant attempt at looking badass, but instead I looked like Romperette, a sixth-string Marvel superhero benched indefinitely for her lackluster costume and useless superpowers, which include...
- Getting fully naked in order to urinate
- Looking like Little Edie Beale on a bender
- Viciously cutting people off at the most unflattering part of the thigh
- Camel toe
So now you know why I hate rompers. It's not that they don't look good on anyone... it's that they don't look good on me.
Let's never speak of this again.