Not every man walks in and sees his wife with her hand stuffed down the front of her shirt, rooting around in her bra like a raccoon foraging for food.
But then...not every man is married to me.
“What the hell are you doing?” my husband asked when he noticed what I was up to. But I could tell from his deer-in-the-headlights expression he really didn’t want to know the answer.
And, darnnit, I had a really good one this time.
I huffed, pulled my hand from my shirt and instructed, “Hold out your hand.”
He jumped back like I had zapped him with a Taser. Which, in all honesty, was a simple case of mistaken identity the last time.
Man, you’d think he’d let that one go.
Instead, he shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest and stuffed both hands under his armpits. “Nuh-uh, not this time,” he promised.
Rolling my eyes, I taunted, “Come on, you big baby. I won’t bite.”
Then I smiled. The Cheshire Cat had nothing on me.
Completely creeped out and just wishing to get this over with, he slowly slid out an arm and carefully put his hand, palm side up, into the air in front of me.
I reached over with the fist I’d taken from my shirt and gently opened my fingers.
Three tiny, yellow beads dropped into his hand.
He bent over and took a closer look. Then he glanced back at me and said, “I’m guessing there’s a story here.”
I nodded and asked, “Ever had a beaded necklace break on you?”
“Uh, no,” he answered. “I’m thinking if I had, you and I wouldn’t be married and having this conversation.”
I sighed and began my tale of woe.
My day started off innocently enough. I decided to wear one of my mom’s beaded costume necklaces. It was a funky accessory, and I felt like being funky that day.
Anyway, it was a very looooong necklace. With a ton of beads in all different shapes and sizes.
Some very, very, very small. And there were like a gazillion of those.
A detail that will become very important later in this story.
Due to the necklace’s length, I wrapped it around my neck a couple of times. You know, to be funky, and off I went to work.
All was well until a while later in the car when I noticed the necklace had shifted and felt a little tight around my neck.
Not wishing to find myself on the 6 o’clock news because I stupidly strangled myself and crashed the car in a blazing inferno (not that it doesn’t make for great video), I reached up and GENTLY pulled on the necklace.
One gentle, little tug. And all hell broke loose. Literally.
Beads. Went. Everywhere.
Down my shirt and into my bra.
And then there were the few that rolled down my back and into the waistband of my pants.
So there I am. Driving down the highway at 70 mph.
Trying to pick beads outta my pants with one hand, beads outta my bra with the other then suddenly realizing I only have two hands and NEITHER IS ON THE STEERING WHEEL!
OK then. Plan B.
I decided to wait it out. Just 10 more minutes to work then I could park and safely clean up the chaos rolling around in my car and on my person.
Seemed like a good idea at the time.
But then...those little beads? The really tiny, tiny, tiny ones I mentioned earlier?
They started...poking...in places the Lord only meant to be treated nicely.
I shifted uncomfortably, hoping to knock the little suckers loose but only succeeded in driving them further into nooks and crannies only my gynecologist has seen.
“It was awful,” I moaned and hung my head in shame. “And then - after I got out of the car - beads kept falling out of my clothes. And every time I stood up, beads fell out of my pants.”
I looked at my husband and muttered, “You don’t want to know what happened when I went to the bathroom.”
He gaped at me in horror and replied, “You’re right. I do NOT want to know.”
And off he ran.