So the other night we finished watching TV and got ready to clear out of the living room, and I felt compelled to remark upon Brian's appearance. His sleeping attire (he has several identical sets) consists of a gray t-shirt and a pair of white boxer shorts. He takes out his contacts at night, too, and wears these black-framed,nerdy-on-purpose Drew Carey kind of glasses.
It was the shorts that got me, though. The waistband of them always manages to slink down lower than his tummy, while the front of the shorts gets all wrinkled up and the fly gapes open. And once he's been sitting around in a chair for a while, the whole business tends to be sort of crooked on his body.
I shook my head at the sight of him. "God," I said, starting to laugh. "We've got to get you something to wear around the house that's not so terrible-looking."
He looked over at me--me, in my bleach-stained navy blue thermal pants topped by non-coordinating t-shirt and sweatshirts, neither of which disguised the fact that my chest was six inches further south than it is when I have a bra on. "Well, you know," he replied, "you ain't exactly setting the world on fire yourself."
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