Husband Expects Lingerie

John wonders why Amy won't wear the sexy stuff. Is she saving it for someone else?

By Amy Kean and John D. Schwartz

AMY: Last night around 2 a.m., as usual, I went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my face, applied Dove facial moisturizer (SPF 15--just in case the sun shines in on me in the morning), then slipped into one of my old cotton nightgowns that was hanging from the door hook. This one was a well-worn favorite, a billowy white and pink striped thing my mother gave me years ago. It's been washed about a thousand times.

Sounds okay, right? Sure, maybe it's not the sexiest choice. But c'mon, it's late and I'm exhausted. Comfort is key. And by the way, I think I look pretty cute.

As I got into bed, John was perusing one of his stupid Mac computer magazines, and he says, smirking, "Hey, very sexy-- you're wearing that old striped nightgown again, huh?"

"What do you mean?" I ask, about to smack him. "Why does it even matter what I wear to bed? You're certainly not trying to seduce me with those worn-out shamrock boxer shorts; they're only meant to be worn around St. Patrick's Day, you idiot!" I'm getting worked up. 

"Do you expect me to strut around in some stupid lacy, itchy negligee just so you can gawk at me?" I ask. "You know if that's what you want, you should've married a stripper or a hooker."

John is starting to squirm. "No, it's just that I know you buy tons of nice, fancy stuff, but you never wear it for me--and I am your husband Amy." 

"Are you kidding me? Those nightgowns all cost well over $100; they're not for regular sleeping on a Thursday night," I explain. "I'm saving those."

John rolls his eyes and gives up, as usual. But I start to secretly wonder: Why am I saving that fancy stuff?  

Then I remember. In the back of my mind, I'm planning that someday--very soon--I'll be living a different life, in a mansion in Paris, where I'll need to tiptoe downstairs late at night to tell my butler how I'd like my eggs in the morning. Then I'll need to wear a formal, elegant satin nightgown, right? Think Jean Harlow in Dinner at Eight (1933).

I certainly don't want my butler to think I'm a slob.

JOHN: Don't you think I, too, dream of living in a Parisian mansion with a butler (or with some traditionally dressed French maids)? I do! But you don't see me squirreling away an extravagant velvet smoking jacket and monogrammed slippers in preparation for it. If I owned a smoking jacket, I'd be wearing it for you, now, while I type this blog. For better or worse, this is our life. So why wait? We're not getting any younger, so let's start using our good stuff today. All of us should.

Let's all get out our good china tonight for no special reason. Let's all put on our finest suits and dresses and just go for a walk around town. And yes, let's put on that sexy sleepwear! 

I have no problem with my wife being comfortable at bedtime. I'm just saying that I watch you bring home bag after bag of fancy dresses, shoes, and lingerie (purchased with our money), but I never get to see you in any of it. If not tonight, then when? If not for me, for whom?