We have a morning ritual in our house. At exactly 6:45, I jump out of bed, brush my teeth, start the coffee, and feed the dogs. I take my steaming hot coffee back to bed and prop myself and wait for the show to begin. At precisely 7:20, my husband jumps in the shower, and at 7:30 every blessed morning, he tells me the exact same thing. It’s like the movie Groundhog Day!
The daily saga goes like this: “I lost my favorite t-shirt, the one with the airplane on it. I saw it in the laundry room yesterday. Someone is stealing my clothes!” I just smile and sip my coffee. “My socks are missing again,” he says in the exact same tone he used yesterday. “Last week I bought four packs of six socks. That’s twenty four socks. Did you hide them?”
The next morning, “Someone stole my favorite running pants. Did you take them? The last time I saw them, they were in my drawer.” I just smile and sip my coffee.
Next morning: “Have you seen my workout clothes? Someone took them out of the dryer. If you see anyone wearing my running shorts, tackle them.” I just smile and sip my coffee.
There was a time when I’d jump up and run off in search of these missing, stolen clothes.
Then I switched to half-decaf coffee. Now I just smile. Every morning within the next ten minutes, he finds exactly what he had just sworn was stolen or hidden from him. It’s usually in his drawers; although sometimes he hides things so that the people who are stealing his clothes won’t find them. Only problem is, he can’t find them either.
Last week, I found his gym clothes in the sunroom behind a big palm. I found his favorite low socks hidden behind the laundry soap in the garage. They are definitely in a good hiding place. No one would think to look there.
You’d think he’d stop announcing these lost items, wouldn’t you? I mean, it’s like admitting every morning that you are a moron, day after day.
Not that I am perfect, mind you! Just this morning after he found his missing clothes, I announced once again, “My favorite bra is missing. We have a ‘bra bandit’ in our house.”
“Well, it should be easy to spot him or her,” he said. “It will be someone wearing my good low socks and your red bra. Let’s call the police and ask if they can pick that person up.” He chuckled. “I think they’d take that person to a mental ward. Your socks are gray. My bra is maroon (not red, he’s color blind). At least they’d be color coordinated.”
“Maybe we should leave underwear out for him or her. The police car backseat might be chilly,” he said, thoughtfully. “Enough about the bandit’s butt!” I yelled, almost spilling my coffee. We have bigger things to worry about.
I reminded him that my bra bandit was even more important than his clothes bandit. I’m too old to go wild and free. This was getting serious now!
He just sipped his coffee and smiled.