There are only 36 hours separating my tired mommy bones from our family vacation. At this time on Thursday night I’ll be drinking vodka tonics brought to me by a shirtless Adonis. My only cares will be of the sea and how many more hours of babysitting I can get for my toddler on the cruise ship. Ah, just kidding. I’ll probably be drinking Boone’s Farm in my room as something insane always happens. Especially when traveling with children. Fingers crossed people. Pray for me.
My husband asked me to pick up a new bathing suit for him before we leave on vacation. I picked up 2 from Target on Saturday. He tried them on and was unhappy with the fit. Daddy stud-muffin has a 32 inch waist and hasn’t gained a pound in 20 years. He could lose 10 pounds in his sleep. He fucking can. I’ve watched it happen. Bastard.
I returned those 2 today and bought 2 more. He’s still not happy with them. One pair was too tight in the legs (is that even a thing) and the other one was “okay.” “Okay” means “not okay” in the universe of bathing suits. Although I can’t remember the last time I tried one on and it looked “okay.” More like, “marginally acceptable with the chance that no one will see my FUPA.” If you don’t know what a FUPA is I’m sorry I mentioned it. Don’t Google it. Trust me.
So now I have a big problem. I need to return things to Target. Doesn’t he understand what happens when women enter Target? It’s like we get sucked into the spending vortex and have to buy all the things. ALL THE THINGS. At this rate, with my husband’s swim trunk vanity and my inability to say no to that little red bullseye, when he finally decides on an acceptable pair they will be worth a million dollars. Because that’s what I’ll have racked up at Target with all the returns.
I’m not even gonna tell you what I’ve spent on two trips in one week. It’s obscene. Here Target, just take my money.