Brian had been at the YMCA swimming his laps when he came in from the cold morning air and said, "I need your help" on his way to the back of the house.
I followed him thinking of worst-case scenerios. Was he having a heart attack? Could he breath properly? Were we in the midst of financial ruin and would he spend the better part of his remaining life in Federal Prisons being a bitch to an inside-trader named Troy?
I found him laying on a towel on our bed holding a pair of tweezers. It was cold out, sure, but tweezers? This was not an emergency. This could be fixed with a long, hard, deep, wet kiss followed by a long, hard, deep, hot shower. I rolled my eyes at his juvenile attempts at getting lucky (PS--Have you bought my book yet? Do it. Do it now.)
"Jeez, Heather," Brian huffed at me as I set my iPod to my "50 Shades" playlist, "My suit came untied during laps and I double tied it while treading and now it's way too tight and too wet to get undone."
|Brian wouldn't let me take a picture of his knotted trunks.|
It's like he doesn't even get me.
I laughed again. Then I spent the next twenty minutes working just north of my husband's crotch tweezing his drawstrings loose while "Let My Blow Your Mind" by Eve played over and over and over.
I laughed the whole time.