Okay I lied.
I have something for you.
This morning when I got out of the shower, I threw on a robe and ran down to Ben's closet hoping to snag the coveted Snoopy shirt. Long story but he has a t-shirt with snoopy playing guitar on the front. It's the dumbest, cutest shirt in the whole world and especially in the past year, if it's clean, he'll put it on. Which means we see it five days a week pretty much. Every now and then he lets me wear it but it's been a long time. He even said no when I asked if I could wear it home when I left him in New York after my visit. He wouldn't give it up.
So this morning he saw me coming a mile away and came around through the kitchen, down the other hallway and I flew into his room and grabbed for the knob and he actually lunged across the bed, grabbing me and pulling me down in the process, opening my robe (which was distracting!) and said he really really wanted to wear that shirt today and maybe I can wear it on the weekend.
I asked him why he never let me wear the shirt anymore and he finally told me. He said he didn't know how I do it, but even after I've washed a T-shirt I've borrowed from him, he still sees protrusions in the front of this shirt where my breasts stretched the fabric. Somehow stretching a Men's XL shirt. Right.
Nice, Ben.
Thanks.
I told him I'd never borrow his shirts again and he laughed and told me I look much better without a shirt on anyway, staring at all my exposed flesh, no longer covered by my robe.
Of course he's right.
(I didn't actually have to throw that in, did I?)
