Getting to the Bottom of It All

I've been a little reluctant to go clothes shopping since my recent weight loss. (Well, not so recent; it's been over a year.) But I broke down a couple of weeks ago and hit the local Old Navy in search of a pair of jeans that actually fit. This is sort of a novelty for me, because I'm only about 5 feet tall, and pants hardly ever fit me.

Once in the dressing room, I found that the loss of 18 pounds has put me into a size 4 of something called the "short, low rise, curvy, boot cut" jean. Of course, I could give a rat's butt what they're called. They said "4," and so I bought them.

Then I stuck them in the closet. Until last Friday night, when Mike and I headed out for a party at the home of one of his work colleagues.

And as I stood on the front porch, a tray of homemade chocolate-covered strawberries in my hands, my husband grabbed my newly-teeny tushie and said: "Your ass looks great in those jeans."

It wasn't exactly a Hallmark moment, but that Canadian son of a bitch so got laid that night.