All day long I’ve been taking care of the umpteen gazillion tasks required to get the Venomous Hubby ready for his trip to Korea, which departs tomorrow at four-oh-fucking clock am.
So. I’d just finished scrubbing, pre-soaking, washing, drying and folding a load which consisted of nothing besides his underwear. Boxer-briefs, in case you’re curious. And while I folded one pair I noticed the crotch area is getting a little thin… as in, I could see the floor through some of the holes.
(Yes, God did bless my husband in that general vicinity — which might explain why I put up with as much as I do — but, honestly, I don’t understand how the man wears out 3 pairs of his underwear in the time it takes me to wear out one of mine.)
I’d just tossed the holy pair into the trash when he walked in and, seeing what I’d done, he frowned.
Him: “I can still get another wear out of these.”
Me: “But why? Doesn’t it hurt to have your junk seeping through the holes?”
Him: “Yeah, but you just washed them. So, okay, they’re kind of gross but I can get another use out of them. Seems like a waste of money not to use them again.”
Me: “By that logic, I might as well start picking out the unchewed pieces of corn from my poop, rinse them off and serve ‘em again at dinner the next day.”
I swear I saw the man’s eyes squinch while he gave that idea serious consideration.