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Yesterday, I acquired a really hot hat.

 

Not only will it keep me toasty all winter, but it also adds a certain je ne sais quoi to my bundled-up self. I’m hoping my husband appreciates the touch. But I would understand if he didn’t. After all, Jeff kind of got robbed, twice, in the process of my buying it.

 

First of all, I found my sexy lid during what I intentionally failed to divulge to my husband was a drop-off birthday party. I put on my best martyr act and submitted to taking our 6-year-old twins to the Build-A-Bear bash, kindly allowing Jeff to relax at home with our potty-training 2-year-old. I secretly knew I would be able to escape for an hour or two with some friends to grab coffee and shop, after leaving our kindergartners to stuff their teddies.

 

Typical of moms, however, we were unable to entirely abandon our kids during our break, and on our way to Nordstrom, our conversation turned to childbirth. One of our friends was having her first reprieve from tending to her newborn. She regaled us with an anecdote about how her obstetrician wanted to discuss birth control at her four-week checkup—a subject she was not quite ready to broach. “I’m still afraid of things coming out,” she said. “I certainly don’t want anything going inyet.”

 

Having VBACed with my third, I said I could relate. “You VBACed?” another friend exclaimed. “So did I!” We high-fived.

 

But the camaraderie started to disintegrate a bit for me when two of our group splintered off to make returns and my other two friends headed toward the lingerie department. One of them needed new bras. I do, too, but I hate to spend money on something I will be wearing under my clothes—not to mention being reminded of how little I have to measure. My other friend related how she had recently dented the family car and how, instead of paying the $200 to repair it, her husband had urged her to blow the sum on something sexy, which is exactly what she set out to do.

 

Somehow it seemed fitting that while our kids were stuffing critters at Build-A-Bear, these ladies were sliding into a different sort of teddy. But I wasn’t quite in the mood. So I headed, instead, toward the “Active Sportswear” section, where my husband got robbed for the second time that day.

 

Among the parkas and fleeces, I spied a foxy red and blue sock cap on a rack—not a sales’ one, I might add. And despite the $30 price tag for an item of which I already possessed several, I tossed away caution like a snowball and handed over my credit card. “You don’t think I’ll get lice from this?” I asked the perplexed salesclerk, as I yanked off the tags and tugged the skullcap onto my head.

 

“Isn’t this cute?” I squealed to my friends.

“Not as cute as this,” one of them replied, holding up a lacy black bra and matching thong.

 

Our other friend was pleased, too, since her salesclerk let her wear home her new brassiere, like a kid sporting his new sneaks straight from the store. However, although my companions charitably complimented my purchase—“You look good in hats,” one kindly said—my cap started to seem a bit floppy next to their intimate apparel.

 

But I quickly rebounded, making the following calculations in my head: A sultry teddy my husband would only catch sight of every once in a very long while; my sexy hat he would be privileged to view every day for the next several months. Furthermore, taken in tandem with the $1.29 I’d spent that morning downloading Carly Rae Jepsen’s hit single to my iPod—which would help keep me slender by pumping me through my runs—these purchases would give us more mileage than any overpriced and under-sewed lingerie.

 

So, wearing fresh woollies on my head, I strode back into Build-A-Bear and then bobbed home with boosted confidence. “Is that a new hat?” my husband asked.

 

Clearly, he’s got my number. Maybe he’ll call.

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