So, I was in the hotel room this last weekend with my husband and it was late so I was kinda a little bit asleep because we’d been driving for 5 hours and living on gas station snacks because I’m just like my dad and believe in not stopping until we get there and we were miserably tired and he apparently had to pee so he thought he’d sneak to the bathroom, in the scarily dark room, without turning on lights or waking me up, because either he:
1. Didn’t want to wake me
2. Didn’t want to get me talking
3. Didn’t want to get me talking
D. Didn’t want to get me talking
Sweet Holy Mother of All Men’s Shoes Left On the Floor On His Side of the Bed and Not Put Over By Mine Like I Told Him….he tripped.
OK…maybe it was more like a hugely loud thud of a stumble. Nevertheless…the wall was slightly slid down partially.
By a grown ass man. Scantily clad grown ass man.
(In my mind.) (Remember. It was scarily dark.)
(And he may or may not have pooted.)
I’m sure your first thought is: OH, MY GOD! TELL ME…IS THAT SCANTILY CLAD GROWN ASS SAINT OF A MAN YOU’RE MARRIED TO OK??
Well, I didn’t immediately know.
Not a word was said. By either of us. Instantly, there was complete stillness in the room. For the 14th time in my 44 years of living and pestering others, I was unable to say one word.
Because I couldn’t breathe. Or see. Because my eyes were scrunched so tightly closed. Because my hands were over my eyes. In the scarily dark room.
And I was doing my best to ask (with the utmost concern and then with even more utmost concern): OH, MY GOD! ARE YOU OK??
But all I could do was flop. On my back. Under the covers. In the bed. With my hands over my eyes and over my mouth and back over my eyes and I couldn’t stop…
LIKE A FRIGGIN’ BULL. A BULL WITH SMOKE BILLOWING OUT OF HIS SNORT HOLES LIKE YOU SEE ON CARTOONS.
IF YOU WATCH CARTOONS.
WHICH I DON’T. ANYMORE. VERY MUCH. DON’T JUDGE.
It was obvious I was screaming in my mouth. I swear I could feel him glaring at me.
In the scarily dark room.
(Hearing is way better than seeing.) (I can howl for days over something I heard rather than something I saw.) (Makes no sense to me either.)
(Just move on.)
By the time I heard the flush I was able to somewhat compose myself. Somewhat.
(He knows how I am.) (He fully expected my reaction.)
I laid there. He palmed his way back down the wall on his side of the bed. Got under the covers.
And very quietly said: Go ahead. It’s killing you, I know. Laugh your ass off.
Which is, precisely, juuuust what I did.
For the next 20 minutes. Because it was in my mind.
Annnnd again at breakfast over two eggs sunnyside up with two slices of bacon and wheat toast. Because it was in my mind.
Annnnd again several times on that 5 hour drive back home while living on gas station snacks because I’m just like my dad and believe in not stopping until we get there. Because it was in my mind.
Thank God that scantily clad grown ass saint of a man loves me. Because right now, right this very minute, he’s sitting in his recliner and I’m starting to snort laugh.
And he knows why without even asking.
Because it is STILL in my mind.
So, the next time we’re in a hotel room after we’ve been driving for 5 hours and living on gas station snacks because I’m just like my dad and believe in not stopping until we get there and we’re miserably tired and you apparently have to pee…make sure you don’t leave your shoes on the floor by your side of the bed instead of putting them over by mine.
Like I told you.