How to know if you’re married to a dirty old man
I had planned for this week’s Blogful (aka useful) tip to be about the MRS – Men, Roofs and Sprained ankles – but an incident today in the grocery store superseded my MRS post.
So I am sure you are wondering how can you be sure you’re man doesn’t have roving eyes, hands, or any other moveable body part when you’re not around. Sure, when you’re present he can hold his attention by biting his inner lip long enough to show you he’s not interested in the tall, stacked blonde walking by. Or maybe he peeks but has great verbal skills and tells you how much better looking you are than the red-headed tattooed bimbo in the skin-tight leather pants. He might even be able to have good enough peripheral vision that while you think he’s engaged in a serious conversation with you about the kids not to notice the brunette in a skimpy white shirt only partially holding in her 36DDD cups.
Or . . . you can just take your husband go grocery shopping with you.
As the pharmacy line was long, we thought we’d tag team. While I headed to the pharmacy, my husband had a small list of food ingredients to buy. He was sure he’d get his list completed, purchased, bagged before I could pick up the medications. Little did he know that my long line sped up like Lucy’s candy conveyer belt. (Hmm… this is twice now that I’ve quoted I Love Lucy, not intentional) I digress. So I darted down the aisles looking for my man. I saw him in between aisles, but he didn’t see me. He was clearly a man-on-a-mission. I watched him zip out of one aisle and zag into another with his little green bulldozer, uh-hum, I mean shopping cart.
(Now here it is crucial to the story that I point out my hubby, whom I adore, often surprises me by wrapping his arms around me from behind. At home, in public places, etc. It is quite a lovely feeling and hope he continues it for many years) Anyway… In his distraction I thought I could reciprocate which I have often tried but haven’t had much success. He seems to notice me before I can sneak up on him. But this time, I had a real shot and surprising him. He thought I was tucked in the middle of sick, grouchy people wanting their medications and didn’t suspect a thing.
As I watched him pick up the pace and drive down the aisle at supersonic speeds, I ran to catch up to him. Because he was moving so fast I couldn’t just lovingly wrap my arms around him so I did the only thing I could think of. Leaning forward in a giant step I stretched my arm to its full extant and quickly and oh so briefly tweaked his tush before as he scampered away.
If I had guessed what that quick physical encounter, all alone, just me and him (romantic sigh), in the paper towel and tissue aisle had led to . . . well . . . let’s just say I would’ve done it much, much sooner – and made sure I had someone taking pictures!
No sooner had my fingers just released their hold on my husband’s er, derriere, he whirled around with the most disgusted look on his face. It was as if he just ate regurgitated peas from a baby. He hollered, “Hay!” with his face as red as a tomato until it registered it was I, his lovely wife and companion, that just violated the lower half of his body.
I told him at least know I know you’re not a dirty old man. If you were, you would’ve turned with a smile and say “Hey baby. . . “ J