Does your husband really care if you can fit into skinny jeans?

Of course, when we initially met, as we rollerbladed in  NYC’s Central Park, me in my Daisy Dukes - hair perfectly coiffed and my face decked in full-on eyeshadow and shimmery lip gloss, he told me shortly thereafter that although he was enamored with my skill on blades, my jean shorts, may have fueled his lustful gaze.

But let’s slow down here a second and put things into perspective. During our initial courtship I was the polar opposite of the woman I am today.  I was a carefree, unattached 20-something, whose biggest concern was paying my rent and feeding my MAC cosmetics addiction. And that whole "fitting into Daisy Dukes thing," well back in those days, being that the bulk of my paychecks went to my exorbitant Manhattan rent, I subsisted solely on Diet coke and takeout Chinese egg drop soup.

Fast forward 11 years, two kids, the latter of which was a C-section, which has left me with a permanent kangaroo pouch, and an affinity for shoveling in my kids’ leftover meals, (heck, how can I possibly toss half-eaten chicken breasts and Kraft macaroni and cheese when there are kids starving in other parts of the world?!), I don’t think I could possibly manage to fit one leg into an entire pair of skinny jeans.

Of course I wasn’t always the hausfrau I’ve recently morphed into. After our first child was born, I was incredibly cognizant of every morsel I consumed -- determined to keep my thighs as cellulite-free as I could. I was committed to getting into that coveted tight pair of jeans at all costs and even attempted a few fad diets in order to do so… They didn’t work. But then I had my second child, and the responsibilities of motherhood, coupled with the usual round-up of deadlines, homework, play dates and, yes, one too many pieces of butter cream frosted cake on the kids’ birthday party circuit, pushed getting into a pair of tight jeans slightly lower on my list of priorities.

Do I care? Only on the rare occasion that my husband and I both happened to be watching TV together (usually we retreat to our respective places in the house -- where I can get my fix of Bravo’s Millionaire Matchmaker and he whatever sport is being televised -- although I think he’d draw the line at curling). Lo and behold we were front and center for the Victoria Secret Fashion show, where models vamped it up in barley-there bras and panties. My initial reaction was to grab the remote and change the channel, but then I waited to see what my husband’s reaction would be to these perfect specimens of the female persuasion who could give any of us moms a run for our money.

I’m not going to lie -- I saw his eyes widen a bit as a bronzed, raven-haired, Brazilian “Angel” swept across the stage, spilling out of  a barely-there push up bra. Oh, did I mention that “his look” is dark-skin and I’m just about the pastiest white girl on this planet who needs to slap on SPF 50 when just the tiniest bit of sun pokes through the clouds? But I digress... For a moment, my heart sank as I looked down at my attire: A pair of my grandma’s finest flannel pajamas and my hair in a bun.

So I asked him point blank, “Do you wish I looked like that,” a question no husband would dare answer with the statement, “Yes, actually you could stand to lose about 20 pounds.” He said, and I quote, “Honey, you are still as beautiful and sexy to me as that first day we met when you went rollerblading in your shorts and eyeshadow.” OK, so now I know he’s lying, or at the very least stretching the truth, but I’ll take it.

So does your husband really care if you can fit into skinny jeans? Probably not. And that is why God invented elastic.