I saw a status update from a male friend that was talking about his “smokin’ hot wife”. I had to shiver-shake it off and all the images it conjured.
On the one hand, 1-2-3… awwwwww, isn’t that…. ummmm, lovely. But on the other, nooooo! *covering ears* I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you! These are dear friends we see and have a lot to do with. So, I don’t wanna know! I don’t want to hear of anyone objectified.
When this was recounted to my husband, tongue-in-cheek (ok…. only sort of) enquiring why he didn’t preface any mention of me in this manner, he retorted that it sounded like someone trying to be “in with the kidz”. Like it was something he had heard in passing on the street from a bunch of desperate and hopefuls lusting after a bit o’ crumpet. Oh, stop it. I’m very 1970′s Basil Fawlty in my pick-up lines, mmkay? It’s been a while.
Two minutes later, when I realised I had not done enough washing lately to bring any clean undies to my drawer, I resorted to my husband’s underwear. I had no choice. We had to go out for brunch. In public. With family. As I stepped into his black Holeproofs with the overly wide front gusset and taut little rear end, I enquired, “See? Why don’t you ever call me smokin’ hot? By the way, I’m wearing your scungies today.”
And Steve replied, without pause, “Good. That makes me feel much better about all those times I wear yours.”
Excuse #481 not to do washing: You miss out on pearlers like this from Steve. I love him. (but I don’t love his undies, goddamn but they are uncomfortable…*making adjustment*)