"I hate blue slacks day," says my husband as he zips up his pants.
"What?" I ask.
"Blue slacks day. One day a week I have to wear these slacks and I hate them. They're too tight."
"And my khaki's are in the laundry so I might have to have two blue slacks days."
He buckles his belt to the second notch instead of the regular third.
"Why don't you wear those black pants of yours?"
"Those are tighter than the blue ones!"
I explode into laughter.
"Glad you're getting a kick out of this," he says and puts on his coat to leave.
I do not laugh at my husband because I think he is fat. I do not laugh because I find the situation particularly funny. I do laugh because this is my life everyday. Every pair of pants I own is blue slacks day. None of my clothes fit. Progressively over the years, I have gained weight; it's just a fact. Clothes that I used to wear in college while looking at myself in the mirror and saying, "God, I look huge," now seem the stuff of dreams. I laugh because it is sad that, at twenty six, I have let myself go.
"I wish I was home from work already so that blue slacks day was over."
I laugh harder. I wish my husband "Happy Blue Slacks Day," roll out of bed, and immediately put on a pair of elastic waist pajama pants. And to avoid diving into a deep depression, I sigh and say to myself, "Happy Blue Slacks Day, Les."