One reason I love my husband...

(Of course there are many more than just "one" but I honestly don't think my computer has enough memory to list all of them!)

My husband is a clothes snob. This is not the reason I love him, I'm just pointing out a fact. He has exquisite taste and prefers quality fabrics and designer labels. It's not to say he doesn't wear non-designer duds from time to time but for the most part, he likes the good stuff. Me on the other hand, I'm somewhere in the middle.

Over the weekend we had some errands to run together one of which included a Target stop. I told him while we were there that I'd like to look at some of their lightweight cotton bras for summer. He just about fell over. He said, "You can't buy bras at Target! They're so cheap, they'll fall apart after you wear them twice!" I told him that's not the case, I'm just shopping for simple cotton bras not some high quality French lingerie. He suggested we head to Nordstrom's instead to check out their selection. I said I didn't want to spend a lot of money so Target bras will do just fine. He shrugged and said fine, and told me to look for him in Automotives when I'm done.

I found 7 bras right off the bat and headed into the dressing room. None of them worked. Went back out to the bra racks for round 2. This time I brought back 6 bras and a couple of them had all these crazy convertible straps so you could make the bra into a halter, wear it strapless, or even move the straps down around your belly for backless shirts and dresses. I was having some serious struggles with this contraption and ended up getting my hair completely tangled into the bra straps and then banged my elbow into the wall of the dressing room which sent me over the edge. Then my cell phone starts ringing and I'm too worked up (and tangled up) to answer it so instead I just continue to Houdini myself out of this mess. I'm now cursing like a truck driver as I literally rip chunks of my hair from the bra hooks. I figure there's no way this bra is going to make it over my head without resulting in self strangulation so I now stretch it beyond belief and shimmy it down over my hips and then slither out of it like a snake. My face is all red, I'm hot and sweaty and the bra looks like it just came out of a blender. I finally check my phone and Tom sends me this text message (which is one of the reasons I love him):

"WIFE, R U DONE SMASHING UR FUN BAGS INTO THAT CHEAP ASS UNDERWEAR???"

Needless to say no bras were purchased at Target that day.