June 17, 5:30 p.m.--in the closet of our master bedroom, as I'm getting dressed following an afternoon of swimming...
Scott is giving me that look. You know...the look. I shouldn't have to explain further.
Me: Honey, just ask me later tonight...we gotta get to your parents' and I've got those cheese grits in the oven and I can't get sidetracked right now. OK?
Scott: We are married.
Me: Um...ya think?
Scott: Yeah, but we've been married over 8 years now. And we've been together 10 years.
Me: Again...ya think? (And I'm wondering why he's staring at me with that look, but not making a single attempt to cross the closet to where I'm standing--rather, where I'm performing my balancing act, with one foot in my shorts, the other simultaneously slipping into flip-flops.)
Scott: But what I'm saying is that I've been with you longer than anyone in my entire life...except my parents and family and all.
Me: Are you completely high? What are you going on about? More importantly, are you high?
Scott: I just can't believe we've made it this far. Eight years, baby...that's a long time, you know?
Me: Staring, mouth gaping, not a sound being uttered. (I know, right? You can't believe it. Me...speechless!)
He then turns to leave and mumbles, as if it's a second thought, "Well, baby--I sure do love you...I'm gonna start the truck..."
And I'm standing there...nekkid from the waist up, asking myself, "Did that conversation just happen?"
Thank God I had the presence of mind to finish dressing. Because I was certain that Jesus was returning in that instant. Why else would this conversation have happened? Furthermore, I don't wanna be caught up in the clouds sans appropriate undergarments...I fully intend on taking my favorite brassiere with me to Glory. It has fuschia, orange, and yellow stars on it, y'all.
And I love him. He's my BFF & soulmate. Scott is very rarely wacky. Perhaps the closet brings out whatever semblance of wackiness he has hidden in his heart. Regardless, he's my man...and I love him...and will for another 100 years, minimum. I just thought y'all should know.
Maybe he plays a little too much Xbox Live with the fellas. I'm just sayin'. All that racin' and fightin' and tacklin' and shootin' might be messin' with his head. Then again, he might be correct in his assessment that I'm the reason for his rapidly-growing grey hairs. Yes, I am that much fun to live with. In my starry brassiere.