Today is my wedding anniversary, the celebration of which took place last week at a little-known resort on a little-known slice of local waterfront no one seems to visit. Stay tuned for an un-sponsored (ie: truthful) review of the resort. I started this post on the balcony of my hotel room. I failed to finish it because I was too busy eating and drinking heavily, losing midnight games of Rummy and lounging poolside for hours with highbrow (and lowbrow) literature.

Example 1: He dreams about our son.

Last week Joe woke up with a memory of a dream. This was especially noteworthy because Joe never remembers his dreams, which I find sort of sad since I remember every ridiculous plot line from every one of my ridiculous dreams.

Joe dreamed that two-year-old Henry ate a “pellet” that turned him into a full-sized adult male. In his dream, he watched our son swallow the pellet and like a character from out of a comic book, morph (disconcertingly fast) from a toddler into a hairy, lumbering man.

This really freaked him out – Joe not Henry. According to his recollection, Henry was calm, but “still slimy” from the transformation. Joe’s use of the word “slimy” caused me to CHORTLE.

“Slimy?” I asked. “SLIMY sounds disgusting.”

“It was disgusting,” Joe said. “You don’t change from a toddler to an adult in three seconds without some residual dew.”

Example 2: He buys me chocolate, flowers and most importantly, beer.

Shortly after checking into our hotel room during last weekend’s anniversary getaway, Joe noticed that I had pounded most of the beer we had brought from home. A thoughtful husband, he offered to go on a beer run. When he returned from the store, he not only produced a six-pack of Bud. He unveiled an eight-pack of Reese’s Cups and a bouquet of flowers.

“How shall I display them?” I asked daintily, while chugging my fourth Bud Light.

“Use that thing on the counter,” he said.

“The tea pot?”

“Yeah.”

Beer, chocolate, flowers, in that order. All men should take note.

Example 3: He likes my chi.

I’m taking yoga again. This means I’m back to running around in thread bare black leggings that I purchased in 2005 when leggings were resurrected from the same tomb that contains the remains of Richard Simmons’ Sweatin’ to the Oldies on VHS.

I signed up for classes with my good friend Kate*, with whom I now have the pleasure of regularly bending over in front of every Saturday morning for an hour and 15 minutes.

On the way to our most recent class, Kate confessed that she tried on several different yoga pants before settling on a pair that wasn’t see-through.

“See-through?” I coughed. “Yoga pants are see-through?”

I had apparently forgotten this gem of a story from July regarding Lulumon’s unintentionally “translucent” yoga pants.

“Yeah see-through,” she said. “I kept putting on pairs and bending over in front of the mirror to make sure you couldn’t see my ass.”

I gulped. Quietly panicked. Oh good god, I thought. My yoga pants are see-through. She’s giving me a subtle hint. Why hadn’t I thought to bend over in front of a mirror before class? I’m not even wearing real yoga pants. I’m wearing EIGHT-YEAR-OLD threadbare leggings. I’m essentially wearing old black pantyhose.

Now let me get one thing clear. Like the woman who wrote this Slate piece, I cannot handle exercising in a thong. I cannot even handle ordinary everyday life in a thong. I love granny panties and I could care less if this makes me look like your Aunt Barb. At my old yoga studio, I’d confidently wear briefs under my yoga pants. Once in awhile I’d catch a glimpse of my panty-lined derriere in the mirror and I’d look around to see half the class rocking panty lines. My old yoga studio attracted women of all ages, shapes and sizes. I felt at home among these sisters.

It seems to me that when women reach a certain age they no longer give a toot if you can see their big comfortable bloomers under their big comfortable pants. At 31, I’m an old soul when it comes to panties.

The women in my NEW yoga class, however, are not so laissez-faire in the underwear department. My NEW yoga mates are overly hip and expertly dressed in expensive pants and tops that are sold at the studio. They’re younger than me and they look hotter when they sweat. They have Chinese throwing stars tattooed on their wrists and Sanskrit inked on the napes of their neck. They ride motorcycles, some of them.

They. Do. Not. Have. Panty lines.

Thus, to this class, I did not wear underwear.

Stupid move. Dumb vanity.

Every pose that morning involved mooning a stranger. I was so convinced that my cheeks were on display that I failed to execute most of the poses. So I half-assed my class (pun intended) and later paraded around in front of my mother to confirm whether the pants were indeed see-through. (They were.)

So how does this concern my ever-loving husband?

Well, for one, he’s a trooper for marrying a woman who’s opposed to thongs. Not only that, he’s a trooper for marrying a woman who for fun occasionally slips on a pair of white satin bloomers the size of a sailboat mast and parades around the house doing a sexy heinous dance that can only be described as a bad, mostly sad, version of Demi Moore in Striptease.

Not only does he feign amusement when these white pantaloons come out, he makes me feel better when my attempt to look hot and panty line-less at yoga (of all places) leaves me too embarrassed to return to class.

“I’m an idiot,” I sighed. “Do you think everyone saw my ass, or just Kate?”

This is where Joe, my husband of four years, really shines as a partner and confidant. This is where he gets an A+ for What To Say To Your Neurotic Wife When She Asks You a Dumb Question.

“She didn’t see your ass,” he said. “She saw your chi.”

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*Not her real name.