Most people have a “most regrettable moment.”

Not me.

Except for all those times I used a credit card when I should have, said something really dumb, or said yes when I should have said no.

But specifically, that ONE regrettable moment?

Is an entire year.

I have a year of regret.

An entire year that has made me fat who I am today.

How, pray tel, does a year make me fat who I am today?

Let me be more cryptic specific.

The year after I graduated high school and before I met Patrick was a very exploratory year, and not the kind of exploration that required spelunking gear. Though it totally could have.

I wasn’t, we’ll say, focused on my school work. I was still living at home going to the local community college, but I really wasn’t home much. At 18, I was so friggin smart! and free! and a girl! and I was cute! and I had a job!

and I was HOT!

Oh, damns was I the shit. Long blond curly hair, size 28 men’s jeans shorts (they were cool back then), weighed 123 pounds cause when you weigh 123 pounds once you remember, had a cool new tattoo, and then another.

I was pretty much the one that brought all the boys to yard.

And they came for me.

I think a small part of me knew this, but a more conscious part of me just wanted the attention. That part of me ruled the rest of me. I was wanted.

Kind of like how I want freshly baked brownies right now.

Which brings me back to how that year made me fat today.

I met Patrick when we were both 18. We immediately stuck to each other and never let go. He loved me like no other guy had ever loved me. He respected me, he doted on me, he listened to me.

He didn’t want to let me go.

So I stayed. Thankfully.

He made me feel wanted. Special. Needed.

But I still noticed all the other boys in the yard. And they still noticed me.

To keep Patrick and to keep myself sane and to keep myself from making the other guys notice me, I subconsciously made myself fat.

Now, at 33, a mom, a wife, a woman. I’m not noticed. My husband loves me, I know this.

But subconsciously, I don’t want to be noticed because then, THEN, I might want them to be noticed.

Nobody notices a fat, 33 year old, mom, wife.

And, like that carton of milk in the back of my fridge with the expiration date of Sept 08, I just recently realized this.

Spoiled milk can become cheese, right? I’m pretty much the cheese.

mmmmm… cheese…

This is pretty much the opposite of any other Valentine’s Day lovey dovey, sickeningly sweet I-LOVE-MY-HUSBAND-SLASH-WIFE-AND-OR-MY-KIDS-UH-LOT post.

This is my reality and really not a Winner:

I am the Laundry Bitch.

There’s a clear and defining line between the sexes. There are countless books, movies, ha-ha TV shows, and blog posts dedicated to pointing out the glaring differences between man and woman. Having been married to a man for the last eleventeen-and-a-half years, I know it’s more than just pee splashes around the toilet and the inability to multi-task that makes us women the better half of the species.

When I first met Mr Sir back in the 90s when we were both extra skinny and 18, I noticed that the sheets on his bed were always 1/2-way on and were always askew. Apparently, this is a boy/man missing gene deal allowing them to be able to sleep every night on sheets with mystery stains that are not properly secured into their proper place.

As I’m sure you have figured out from my lack of housekeeping skills, I don’t make the bed every day. Really? What’s the point? But when I do get into bed, the sheets need to be straight, all corners need to be stretched into position, and the bed needs to be generally comfortable.

You know, normal stuff.

After washing the sheets last night, I asked Mr Sir to help me make the bed. (Here’s where he’d want me to tell you he normally makes the bed all by himself after the sheets are washed. He’s proud awesome like that.)

I fluffed out the bottom fitted sheet and found a massive hole in the sheets. Like, HUGE. I have no idea how the hole happened, so I assume they got caught in the washer or dryer somehow and ripped. (Here’s where I don’t admit that it could have possibly been wear and tear from my scratchy, non-pedicured feet that wore the hole.)

My first reaction, as would be any other sane woman’s, was to go get the spare guest sheets and use those until we buy some new sheets.

HIS suggestion: “What? They’re fine – just put the hole down at our feet.”

Erm. Seriously?

Does he not realize that we are yuppie civilized American people who can actually sleep on hole-less sheets?

Does he not realize I need smooth, un-pilled, securely fastened sheets to get my full 8 hours of beauty rest?

DOES HE NOT REALIZE WE ARE 33-YEAR-OLD PARENTS WHO HAVE GROWN UP JUST ENOUGH TO REQUIRE NON-HOLEY SHEETS?

I thought I had trained knew this man I married as a virginal young bride. But really, I don’t think he’s changed at all in the last 15 years.

He’s clearly lucky to have me to teach him how to live.