"Hey, Sweetie?" I ask my patient husband who, at the end of the day, is sitting in his favorite chair. "I know you're tired now, but would you run down to the little store for me? I'm dying for a caffeine fix--I need a Coke."
Patient husband looks questioningly at me. "And why can't you go get one yourself?"
He knows better than to have asked.
"Are you sure you want the answer?" I giggle.
"Maybe," he answers wearily.
"Well, you can't tell right now because I'm wearing an apron, but I'm not wearing a bra and this t-shirt is a little thin. I can't go out in public like this."
"Yeah?" he bites, "so go put on a bra?"
"They're all in the washing machine, except for the ones I threw away, and the brand new ones I just bought today, but those still have the tags on them and I hate bra shopping so much that after about an hour I quit caring and didn't bother adjusting straps and looking for the perfect fit so I just bought what I kinda thought would work and it was such an awful shopping trip that I'm not about to go into our bedroom and see if any of them actually fit and if I'm not sure of the fit I don't want to take the tags off and . . . "
"You know you're clinically insane, don't you?" Patient husband asks as he heads for the door. Like I knew he would.
"Yeah," I tell him. Giggling.