The Naked Truth: Does your husband really care if you can fit into skinny jeans?

After 11 years of being a full-fledged member of this institution we call marriage, I can say with total and complete certainty that at this point I'm fairly convinced my husband could care less about whether or not I can fit into a pair of skinny jeans. In fact, 95 percent of the time, if I walked around draped in a potato sack, it wouldn't illicit much of a reaction from him. As I write this, I'm not quite sure whether the fact that the shape of my body has no bearing on him is actually a good thing. Is it that he loves every last inch of me or it that he's just quietly resigned himself to living with a wife who has no interest in doing stomach crunches?

Of course, when we initially met, as we rollerbladed in NYC's Central Park, me in my Daisy Dukes - hair perfectly coiffed and my face decked in full-on eyeshadow and shimmery lip gloss, he told me shortly thereafter that although he was enamored with my skill on blades, my jean shorts, may have fueled his lustful gaze.

But let's slow down here a second and put things into perspective. During our initial courtship I was the polar opposite of the woman I am today. I was a carefree, unattached 20-something, whose biggest concern was paying my rent and feeding my MAC cosmetics addiction. And that whole "fitting into Daisy Dukes thing," well back in those days, being that the bulk of my paychecks went to my exorbitant Manhattan rent, I subsisted solely on Diet coke and takeout Chinese egg drop soup.

Fast forward 11 years, two kids, the latter of which was a C-section, which has left me with a permanent kangaroo pouch, and an affinity for shoveling in my kids' leftover meals, (heck, how can I possibly toss half-eaten chicken breasts and Kraft macaroni and cheese when there are kids starving in other parts of the world?!), I don't think I could possibly manage to fit one leg into an entire pair of skinny jeans.