Will you accept this prose?

During the season of engagement, marriage advice is a free-for-all.  Welcome (and unwelcome) tips, ranging from child rearing and submission to the T.V. remote to pioneer women recipes, laundry counsel and the constant reminder to pick your battles (I will always battle for not leaving wet towels on the bed – end of story). Among the valuable nuggets was third-party, pre-wedding advice delivered at a bridal luncheon. “Never let a man see you in flannel” and “before your husband comes home from work, throw on some lipstick and run a brush through your hair.” Well, Tye beats me home from work everyday (perks of working a mile from home), and he says “lipstick is too sticky” and has the same disgruntled aversion to it as an elementary school boy stuck sitting next to a girl with cooties on the bus – so I’m basically on the path to failure on both accounts. Regardless of these marital faux pas, we’re happy campers. Campers in flannel – and sweats (insert gasps here).

The end of our work-day is a bit ritualistic. We peel out of business professional and transition to couch-casual, donning favored sweats and all other comfortable must-haves to weather S.C.’s “winter” (frozen in the morning, warm afternoon, frozen in the evening). And so far, it hasn’t killed the romance (hint: they come off as easy as they come on) so we’re keeping them in the end-of-day rotation – despite the warnings. And luckily, this Christmas, we both got new sweats.

Mine have the option to “cut” off the ends to accommodate short stature. And at a whopping 5’2, I needed to lose some length. Sounds like a job for my live-in engineer. He’s precise, careful and methodical. With scissors, he can do no wrong, right? Actually, wrong.

With delicate meticulousness, he managed to hem them at an uncanny angle, leaving me with a pedal pusher left leg. Baffled by his own gaff, he’s holding true that Victoria’s Secret made them uneven from the start. Design malfunction, perhaps.

Meanwhile, I’m having flashbacks from the Halloweens of 1995 and 1997, where I manged to grow an inch or two and sport the same Halloween attire twice, as the slighted firstborn. With a fresh new baby in the family – who needs two brand new costumes? Have you ever seen a tiger wear capri pants? Yea, me neither.

So as penance for his actions, I accompanied him to the grocery store on Monday, sporting the pedal pusher sweats. He felt the weight of the embarrassment of having a People-of-Walmart wife.

And to add insult to injury, I insisted that he join me afterwards in our living room for the premier of the Bachelor, with the humdrum farmer Chris and his band of frenzied bachelorettes. After enduring the two-hour melodrama, I asked him which girl was his favorite (don’t fall for it, it’s a trap!) and he began describing the “26-year old one with the dirty blond hair.” Naturally, I can’t remember which one that was. He shared one more hint. “I think she was wearing pedal pusher sweat pants.”

Penance is over. He can stay.

He’s just banned from the scissors.