When I first met my husband, I couldn’t believe that he didn’t find me hilarious. He hardly ever laughed at me. This went on for so long that I eventually compared the nature of our relationship to Mr. Wilson and Dennis The Menace.
It was then when he explained what a “straight man” was (and no, sadly I am not referring to sexuality) and then I got it. He was and will always be my straight man. He may never laugh out loud unless I catch him off guard, but this doesn’t necessarily mean that he isn’t laughing on the inside (which, if you ask me is better than crying on the inside).
So, because I am a highly mature adult, I try to spend most of our time spent in public embarrassing him. I spent much of the last part of my pregnancy waddling after him in stores loudly requesting that he get me my nipple cream and hemorrhoid pillows.
He wasn’t even remotely fazed.
I consider every instance that I make him blush a personal (major) victory, so I take most opportunities as they are presented. A simple jaunt through the pharmacy can turn into me loudly shrieking after him to “fill that Viagra prescription so we can get our hump on!” or “Honey, don’t you need some more ADULT DIAPERS? We’re almost out!”
(I do the same thing to my mother, minus, of course, the Viagra comment as she doesn’t have a penis. I think. The results are the same. Loudly rolling their eyes into the back of their head at my teenage-esque antics.)
You might think that this might elicit as much or more shame to me than it does to either of them, but you’d be horribly wrong. I put myself in the other patron’s shoes: who WOULDN’T secretly smirk when overhearing this? There’s a reason that Overheard in the Office is a great website: people like to hear this sort of crap.
Today, for the first time since I referred to my delicate girl parts as “a split wet beaver,” I finally achieved ultimate embarrassment: I made my husband blush (and likely nearly divorce me).
We’d just dropped off a prescription at Yee Old Target Pharmacy when somewhere in the back of the dusty recesses of my memory, I recalled that we needed to, *ahem,* restock on the lube (damn you, lactation!). I gleefully informed my husband of this at top volume from several aisles away.
Rather than turn the other way and pretend not to be That Crazy Woman’s Poor Husband, he trudged down the lube aisle with me to peruse our choices. Once decided, we turned around and headed back to the grocery aisle to continue our shopping expedition.
It was only then when I turned the shamefulness up a couple of notches, when I handed the baby the bottle for him to hold onto (he loves to examine our purchases).
Poor The Daver turned about 57 shades of red and sputtered none too delicately “NO!” as he took the offending bottle of goo away from him.
“No,” he continued his voice jumping several octaves higher, “I will NOT have the baby gumming a bottle of KY throughout Target, Becky. I am putting my foot DOWN.”
I’m smart enough to know when I’ve successfully pushed the envelope to the breaking point, so I conceded and handed Alex a much more PC package of Medicated Chapstick.
As I walked away, I comforted myself by knowing that after several long years of trying, I’ve finally painfully embarrassed my husband once again.