On said shopping excursion I tried on a sweater dress. Those of you who are pear-shaped (like me) probably already recoiled in horror at the phrase "sweater dress" but I am apparently an idiot because I put the demon dress on my body anyway.
Not the exact dress, but similar. I promise it would be equally unflattering on me.
While staring at myself in the mirror, I said "Ugh. Could I look more like a sack of potatoes?"
Without missing a beat, Mom shot back "Yeah, that dress could be brown."
We fell into a fit of giggles - saying that I probably smell like Thanksgiving - and it made me want a daughter someday. Don't get me wrong, I adore my son, but I will never get to call him fat in a dressing room and call it bonding.
Love ya Mom.