So I, being a glutton for never-ending shame that I apparently am, chose a random pair of Rob's jeans to try on one day after he left for work. Just to see how they looked. Or whether or not I could get them zipped.
To my utter amazement, I got them suckers zipped AND buttoned. Then, feeling a little more confident, I stuck my thumbs in the butt pockets to pull the jeans down to a comfortable hip level. I pulled, thinkingly optimistically that I'd maybe expanded my wardrobe, until I heard a really bad sound. A ripping sound. Like, a ripping through the butt of jeans sound. It was a reluctant rip; I could tell those little denim fibers were hanging on with everything they had, as if they knew what effect the their ripping might have on my self-esteem. But they tore anyway. They had no choice. There was just too much ass inside those jeans.
As cruel fate would have it, I had picked an unwieldy pair of Levi's for my ill-fated experiment. There had been a small, thread-bare section of material around the right back pocket. Hence the ripping.
So my butt busted through my husband's pants. And then I had to tell him before he came home and found them.