So, my wife was getting lippy with me the other day.
In her defense, she was coming off a seven day migraine and feeling really good, especially about herself. She thought the things coming out of her mouth were hilarious. Her exact words have since escaped me, but I do remember growing annoyed.
We were in our bedroom, conveniently located on ground level with a gorgeous view of our newly asphalted driveway, making the transition from our day clothes to our comfy clothes. She was still talk, talk, talking, and I couldn't take her picking on me anymore.
I took off my underwear.
My tiny hand formed a fist around them.
I drew my arm back and like I was transformed into Peyton Manning, my unmentionables left my hand, glided through the air as if they were being transported by a flock of angels, and WHAP! My wife looked up just in time for them to smack her in the face.
Bull's eye.
I threw myself onto the bed and laughed until I thought I was going to die, until my stomach hurt so bad I thought I’d have to call into work, until my face was the color of a radish. Was I naked? Yes. Did I care? No need. We live in the mountains, and I spend a great deal of time not worrying about wearing clothes around the house.
She made a lame retaliation attempt by trying to put said panties on my head, but I wasn't going to allow that to happen. After she failed repeatedly, my wife resigned to watching me roll around on the bed, still laughing like my life depended on it, like she was waiting for a child to stop throwing a tantrum. Her lips were tight and slightly pursed. She was not amused. I think she might have said a few departing words, but I couldn't register anything outside my perfect throw and how goddamn funny I thought it was. She left me downstairs, closing the bedroom door behind her with the force of someone trying to have the last say. I looked down at my basset—the last witness to my athletic brilliance—who was looking at the door, wondering who the mommy upstairs was talking too.
My eyes were then directed to a flash of red in the driveway.
Oh, shit.
A man. In a red t-shirt. Getting out of a truck. What the…!? I heard my wife’s voice yelling at our mutt to bring his squeaky (a giant stuffed octopus that squeaks no matter where you touch it) inside. I heard the voice of a man, asking her if our mutt's name was Bubba? No, his name is not Bubba (but we do call him that more often than his given name of Parker.) And then another man's voice. The basset and I were as quiet as Anne Frank in an attic. My mind couldn't help but to wonder how long the men had been there. If they had seen the wrestling match that revolved around my underwear!? Pleasantries were exchanged. Thank-you-for-your-times and beautiful-day-isn’t-its were passed out like butterscotch candies at church.
In less than five minutes, the men made their way back to their truck. [The men were there to try and convince us to vote for Dan Maes for Colorado’s next governor (like that would ever happen!). Once they saw my wife was a woman of color and announced she was a democrat with no plans to change her mind, they made their way (I can only imagine happily) back to their truck.] I watched the dust blow around the truck as it safely exited the driveway.
Once they were out of sight, I yelled upstairs to my wife, trying my best to get the words out through another fit of hysterics, “I’m…um…ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT SURE they saw my titties!”
We both found the humor in that.
