Some day you’ll laugh about it

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This piece is about my husband. While I could take this time to sappily write the next several hundred words about how sweet, compassionate, honest, funny, talented and genuinely nice he truly is, that would be REALLY FUCKING BORING. And that is not why you’re here.

He is great, don’t get me wrong. But one time, when I happened to be pregnant with his child, we stood on the screened in porch as a summer evening thunderstorm began brewing. It was only a few moments before the sky opened up and we were racing around to protect the few things we didn’t want to get wet as fat drops blew in sideways. Suddenly a bolt of lightning flashed the night into day which was followed almost immediately by the most ear shattering crack of thunder I’ve ever heard. Without the slightest hesitation, HE SHOVED PAST ME AND SHOT HIS SORRY BEHIND RIGHT INTO THE HOUSE. I knew up to that point that I was on my own when it came to centipedes and the supernatural, but as the door slammed in my face, I mentally added “extreme weather” to the list.

There he stood as I walked in, looking slightly embarrassed, and offering quickly, “I’m taller! It would have hit me first!”

Sure he looks all punk rock but you should see him flinch when opening a tube of crescent rolls. (Photo by Robin Katrick)

Sure he looks all punk rock but you should see him flinch when opening a tube of crescent rolls.
(Photo by Robin Katrick)

Luckily, we both laugh easily. Arguments, often caused by hunger or furniture assembly, end quickly and provide a chuckle or two later on as well. To Bobby’s credit, nothing much rattles him. He’s as even keeled as they come and his relaxed nature is just the right balance between logically calm and Slater from Dazed and Confused.

A few years into our relationship we were invited to a friend’s wedding a couple hours away. Our son was almost 3 and we had yet to leave him overnight, so this was a big deal. With the weekend fast approaching, we went to Macy’s to buy the poor tee-shirt and jeans loving man his first real suit. This too was a big deal as we didn’t really have the money to spend to begin with. Though as they say, the clothes make the man, so DON’T SHOW UP AT A WEDDING LOOKING LIKE YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY TO A NIRVANA FAN CLUB MEETING.

The jacket fit perfectly. The pants needed hemming. So the week before the wedding, we dropped the pants off to Bobby’s mom who was willing to do the job. We would drop our son off to her on our way to the wedding, and retrieve the pants then.

The back of the car was loaded with our things for the weekend, including the beautiful brand new suit jacket, still in its Calvin Klein wardrobe bag, hanging from the hook. After trading the kid for the pants and laying them on the backseat, we were on our way back to town to meet the friends we would carpool south with.

Blame it on the excitement of living like childless adults for a whole 36 hours or just blatant stupidity, but as we loaded our things into their car, the pants lay forgotten right where I had tossed them less than an hour before.

For over a hundred miles we snaked through back roads away from the bottom half of Bobby’s wedding attire. Still blissfully unaware of the mistake, we pulled into the ski resort. I grabbed Bobby’s hand with excitement and whispered, “You’re going to look GOOOOOD.”

Jumping out of the car, the trunk opened and within seconds it all came crashing down. I felt my stomach drop into my shoes and my eyes filled with tears. “I..I..I left your pants in our car.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I didn’t grab them. I’m so sorry.”

Bobby and our friends shifted into problem solving mode. I stood fighting (arguably dramatic) tears on the curb.

“You could take our car and drive back to get them if you want.”

“If it were closer, maybe. But that’s two hours home, 2 hours back and the wedding is in less than 3. There has to be another option.”

We decided to head to our room to meet the rest of our friends to reassess. Perhaps one of the groomsmen had an extra pair that they’d brought for the rehearsal dinner.

Or not.

We were back to swim trunks and jeans as the choices for fancy wedding ass coverings, so down to the concierge he went in hopes of finding a solution. He returned five minutes later with a map and directions to Singleton’s to enlist some moral support for the adventure. I sensed he knew I was too near a mental breakdown to be helpful when he asked our friend to go instead.

At that point, I figured the day was saved. While I knew nothing of this “Singleton’s”, I imagined it to be a department store of some sort. Never mind the fact that on our way into town we barely passed a gas station.

It wasn’t long before my phone rang.

“Sara?”

“Yeahhhh…”

“So, we’re at Singleton’s. And I just have one question. Black or khaki?”

“Neither. Your suit is navy.”

“Those are my options.”

“Well, the khaki will look way too casual and the black will just look shitty. What kind of department store only has 2 pairs of pants?”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Listen. The pants are on a shelf next to the barbecue sauce, and I’m standing under a moose head. There are worms in the cooler by the door, and bullets in a case at the register. BLACK OR KHAKI?”

“Khaki.”

“Thank you. I love you. Bye.”

He returned for the fancy wedding with a GOD DAMN PAIR OF CARHARTTS. The kind with a loop on the side of the thigh to hold a hammer. I ironed them while I laugh-cried.

And luckily he laughed too. It’s just the kind of guy he is.

 

 

amateur comedian, professional bullshitter. will take pay in baked goods once already rich.

  • http://www.suburbansnapshots.com Suburban Snapshots

    Listen, those pop-biscuits are no fucking joke.

    • OddlyWellAdjusted

      Ok. Fine. He can have the biscuits. But there’s really no excuse for being startled by the snowman in the yard that he built with his own two hands.