My Husband, the hero. (Warning: There is disucssion of my underwear in this post.)

Tonight I was going through the nightly fit of figuring out what to wear to work tomorrow. Unlike most people who work in the cooporate world where they actually interact with adults, I need to dress in a manner that allows me to look professional, but also enables me to crawl around the floor or sprint across the playground towards a bleeding child. Meanwhile, I wanna look somewhat stylish and not commit any FOH PAWS of which so many of my co-workers are guilty, i.e. jumpers, print turtlenecks, crocheted vests. I got some new pants over Christmas (I rarely do the skirt thing at work. Or ever) that are amazingly comfortable, but require me to wear a certain kind of very small undergarmet. In a fury prompted by exhaustion and a belly ache, I ran into the office, fist raised, proclaiming that I was going to have a VPL tomorrow, and I didn't care who knew it. Ross, ever the formidable force, looked at me square in the eye and demanded, "DON'T BE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE." I stopped dead in my tracks and with a wide-eyed look said, "You're right. Thank you, Ross." I will be forever grateful.