Now, I bet you think I’m going to try to stretch my pregnancy out as a Christmas gift, but I got pregnant in August and I’m pretty sure I don’t get a gift until the end and I’m pretty sure you can’t call it a gift if someone has earned it. Does your boss come up to you every other week with an envelope with a festive bow attached, watching eagerly for your expression as you open… your paycheck? No.
Also, it’s not the fact that Garlic Bread is a girl that I’m calling a gift, because I know that you found out on Christmas, Internet, but Phil and I knew before that. You’re going to have to get used to the idea that Phil and I find out information about this pregnancy and share it with you if and when we want to. We’re not all in this together – I mean, we’re not a team on this. In general, Internet, I consider us a team, but not on this. The whole world seems to think pregnancy is a team effort, where Phil and I want to consider everyone’s suggestions for names in a fair, democratic fashion and want to be told exactly how our labor will go based on exactly how someone else’s went, but I’m telling you, this is just us.
You know what, this is pretty much just me, but Phil gets to put on the jersey on game day, too, you know?
Anyway. No. Neither of those things.
The Christmas present that changed my entire life for the better was two three-packs of absolutely enormous underpants.
For the last couple of months, I have been suffering from severe underpants issues.
Every morning, I would put a pair of underpants on, and ten minutes later, they’d have taken off for parts unknown.
The combination of a protruding belly overtaking my waistline and the world’s flattest butt worked together to create an untenable underpants situation.
I’d put a pair of underpants on and do a couple of deep knee bends (which have gotten progressively less deep as time has gone on), attempting to assure myself of their security and set off about my day’s activities. As soon as I was involved in something, or as soon as the time looked extremely inconvenient, I’d feel them start to creep.
Sometimes, if I caught it soon enough, an inconspicuous wiggle or waistband adjustment could solve the problem – for a moment.
Most times, though, once the creep had started, the SPROING! of my underpants settling somewhere that left half of my butt exposed to the elements of the inside of my single pair of maternity jeans would sound.
And the jeans – the jeans designed for early pregnancy are not the kind you think of when you think of maternity pants. They’re designed to sit below the belly, with hidden elastic to allow you to expand the pants as needed. Never intended to go over the belly, just to get you through the initial puffing, bloat and shifting of all of your innards. So of course, sitting below my belly, these jeans have nothing but my no-ass to rely on for gravity defiance.
Ask me how well that has been working.
Anyway, as both a pregnant lady and a semi-professional hermit, reaching down the back of my own pants to yank up my underpants sixty-five to seventy-two times per day was no big deal. However, I have been known to occasionally leave the house as situations demand.
“Cover me!,” I’d hiss at Phil, reaching down into my own backside area on an Underpants Search and Rescue. He’d do his best, but we’d usually be somewhere like a parking lot, where there’s only so much covering the average sized man can do.
Or worse? The times when my hands would be full, and Phil would hear a frantic, “Help! My pants! Help! It’s all going! Help!,” and have to reach down himself and yank the whole rig back up.
What I’m saying is, the TJ-hood of the Traveling Underpants has been hard on all of us.
So, for Christmas, I asked for some great big underpants.
“How big?,” I would be asked.
“Just enormous. As big as you can get. Get me some big ol’ panties.”
I made sure to deliver this information to anyone who asked who I could also feel comfortable asking for underpants. This is more people than you’d think.
A night or two before Christmas, I panicked. I turned to Phil in the dark and said, “What if no one took me seriously? What if I don’t get any big underpants? I can’t live like this! I can’t!”
As a total team player and committed member of this company, he was quick to assure me that if no one snuck any mega-underpants into my stocking, we would brave the horrible crowds on the day after Christmas to procure some on our own. That’s why he gets to wear the jersey, guys.
“Ok,” I told him. “But did you know they sell maternity thongs? I don’t want any of those. I can’t even keep track of normal underpants. A maternity thong would be like a contact lens, where you think you lost it, so you put in a new one and then find out weeks later that you’ve been wearing two the whole time. No thongs.”
But we needn’t have worried, as when Christmas morning arrived, my mother had indeed come through for me with some simply enormous underpants. I mean, just huge. You have no idea. I took a pair out of the package to proudly display them over Skype to my entire family, my glee hidden behind the reams and reams of fabric.
And oh, man, when I put some on? You’ve never seen a happier pregnant lady in your life, I swear it. I pulled them all the way up and lapped the house in a awkward, waddling lope a few times, the dogs catching the excitement and following me in a glorious Underpants Parade around the living room.
“Look at me! Look at me!,” I crowed. “Look at me in my giant underpants! Look at the little pink polka dots on my giant underpants! Do you love them?”
“Ahh…,” said Phil, “I’m… happy that you love them.”
He doesn’t think my great big underpants are sexy, but you know what? That’s ok. You know what is even less sexy? Having to reach down your wife’s pants in the middle of the potato chip aisle because her underpants have given up the fight against the Belly Protrusion Invasion and taken off down the Wide Flat Assroad to freedom.
And, in honor of my own EXCESSIVELY GOOD MOOD (due entirely to underpants comfort) and also in honor of being HALFWAY FINISHED WITH PREGNANCY, here is Garlic Bread’s Halfway Point Hut.
Whoa-oh, we’re halfway there.
Whoa-oh, Garlic Bread’s Lair.