The other day:
Brian: You look like such a mom right now.
Me: Excuse me?!
Brian, sensing danger: You know, very…motherly.
Me: What makes me look like a mom?
I look down at myself.
Brian: Well, you’re wearing your hot yoga pants and-
Me: THESE ARE YOGA KNICKERS! THEY STOP JUST BELOW THE KNEE! And I just came from yoga, so I’m not lazy. And these aren’t even stained. NEXT!
Brian: And, and you can see that black fabric just by your neckline…
Me: You mean my sports bra? Being able to see my bra makes me look like a mom? I think you have me confused with a hooker. A very sporty hooker.
Brian: Well, you look great carrying Dylan around. I love you. You’re pretty.
Me: Look. If you ever see me trying to buy a pair of mom jeans, tear them out of my hands and burn them on the spot. You got me?
Brian: But what if you tell me how comfortable they are? And that they’re on sale? What then?!
Me: Distract me with chocolate and then burn them. And if I say those things, just remind me that I said I would say those things. You know, like in Fight Club.
Brian: But I thought the first rule of Fight Club was-
Me: -to never let me buy mom jeans, yes.
Brian: And to not let your stuff end up owning you?
Me: That too. Now tell me I’m pretty.
Brian: You’re pretty. Here’s a muffin.
Psychobabble 