Oftentimes, my husband puts in a few hours over the weekend while his office is quiet. He would leave mid-morning and return having endured several productive hours amid a row of vacant offices. And I accepted this as truth for many months.
He arrived home one Sunday afternoon and I greeted him as usual with a smooch. Time passed and we began preparing dinner together, a weekend tradition. As he chopped a pepper or an onion I noticed the whole left side of his face was covered in specks of glitter. I suppressed my urge to ask where exactly he spent his Sunday afternoons each week assuming there was a reasonable explanation, but one I simply could not fathom!
The following night as I changed into my sexy evening wear: a fancy Cranston High School t-shirt c. 1999, size XL and a pair of little shorts I might have purchased during the era of said t-shirt, I noticed a very long platinum blond hair on the floor. I try not to panic when seeing/reading/hearing suspicious things that could drastically affect my marriage, but the evidence was building. Upon further inspection, the strand appeared to be maybe two feet long. The whore. That was enough, I had to confront him.
I broached the topic holding up the hair as calmly as an angry Irish girl who thinks her husband is canoodling with strippers could, “What’s her name, you bastard?!” from his standpoint across the room it likely appeared I was gesturing a modified “OK” sign. Shocked and confused he approached me to finally see the strand of hair between my fingers. He took it from me and calmly asked, “How did you spend your Sunday afternoon while I was at work, Sarah?”
Perhaps it’s important to know boredom, for me, is sometimes alleviated with a game Dress-Up. If you’re 7, you know exactly what I’m talking about, but this has more of an adult twist. No, you creep; it’s not sex-related. It begins innocently with an ample amount of time to start a project, “I think I’ll reorganize all the crap under the bed,” then BLAMO! I’m dressed in a tutu wearing a wig, full fairy-princess makeup, and a six-foot pair of wings made of real feathers casually vacuuming the living room or perusing the internet as one might do. You see, under my bed lives a rather extensive collection of Halloween costumes, odd props, and an eclectic selection of makeup: body paint in an array of colors, fake blood, teeth, masks, wigs, weaponry, you name it). If you know me personally, this shit has either come in handy for you to borrow or is an extremely disturbing discovery about my personality. However, it has its drawbacks, namely accusing my husband of screwing strippers at his “office” when it was his own wife who absentmindedly wiped glitter on his face and shed a wig hair on the bedroom floor. If it were in fact the case, he’d probably just offer them an empty desk and a computer to amuse themselves with while he did things with numbers that I’ll never understand. I’m glad one of us is in a stable relationship.
