Okay, this one’s going to be a keeper, Folks. It’s a story you’ll tell your friend at work, one you will possibly pee your pants about, and one that will most definitely not be appreciated by Shoes. But here we go anyway, because I aim to keep it real on the blog.
It was a couple of weeks ago when it happened, and I’m just now blogging about it because I wasn’t sure how to handle the humiliation. But then I decided I’d deal with it like I do most things in my life: head on. Bring it.
I have mentioned before that Bryon was so sick with the flu this year. He isn’t friendly with needles, so the immunization was not a possibility and then by the time we’d been exposed, well, you don’t want to go immunizing kiddos and lowering their little immune systems when something big is looming. What was I saying? Oh yes. I missed my husband because he was sick and laying on the couch like a grouchy lump for weeks.
I was starting to feel sort of achy myself, but I missed him a lot in the way that wives ordinarily do. After a few days, I was crawling the walls if you know what I’m saying. Loving on him makes me feel put back together and taken care of. Needed and loved.
When he was finally on the mend Bryon awoke one morning feeling his Wheaties in the best possible way. No aches or pains, and no headache for the first time in over a week. He was smiling and nuzzly while it was still mostly dark outside.
There was a lot of kissing, enough to make up for the whole week of missing out. Kissing that restored our best friendship and also made the teenage girl inside of me swirl my skirt out. We were rolling around in the bedsheets, Peeps. It was hot and steamy and awesome. Sweaty from leftover extra quilts to sweat the fever out. Blue light soared through the room. Oh, how I love that blue light of morning. Have I mentioned?
And so it was that my husband leaned himself over my face (relax, Mom, I’m not going to get too graphic here) and told me that he’d missed me, too. He thanked me for taking care of his sorry, grouchy self while he was sick, for making him soup he didn’t feel like eating, and apologized for making me sick, too. So sweet, my Jedi.
While he was talking, I gently kissed his beardy chin and wiped the mascara from my eyes. I also pushed the hair back out of my face, which caused approximately 14 hairs to fall into my mouth. [Isn’t that always the way with morning nookie? All smeary and marvelous?] There was more kissing and I tried to discreetly pull the hairs from my mouth between each head turn, all romantic-like. I struggled for several moments because the kissing was getting saucier. Kiss, kiss, remove hair strand from larynx, kiss kiss.
After that it did get pretty graphic and… I promised my mother up there that I wouldn’t share that on the blog. Plus if Shoes is still reading this post he’d call me disgusting in an anonymous comment. And who wants that? Right.
So as I was saying, Bryon and I were disgusting for quite a while that morning. It was during a rather intense kiss that I realized there was something sweet and crunchy in the back of my throat. Stupid hair with dry shampoo and hairspray, and whatever what-not all over it! I wasn’t about to stop kissing or groping my Jedi, so when I realized that I couldn’t work it to the front of my mouth with my tongue *while also* continuing to smoochy smooch, I just swallowed and moved on. It’s just hair after all.
Eventually we’d fallen out of the bed a few times and Bryon’s chest hair was all sweaty, so we stood up and decided to shower. Which we usually do together. Bryon flipped the light on, smiled at me, and gave me a sweet little kiss. I smiled back and before I could say anything, caught a glimpse of my own face in the mirror. GASP. My mascara was racooned all over my face and I was all flushed. Mascara was on my forehead for pity’s sake! My hair, oh my Lord. It was … well, it was bedhead for sure. Marvelous proof of a hearty romp, I like to say.
Anyway, we stood there in the shower quietly smiling and basking in the afterness of our love for a while. Giggle. Then I began to piece together all of the things that had transpired that morning. How blessed I was to have a husband who was healing, and so young in spirit that he had to chase me around under the covers and make me giggle like a teenager. Even though he’d been sick and grouchy, and so full of snot for the past two weeks, and … wait a minute.
I blinked and wiped more mascara from my eyes.
Fast as a thunder-crack, everything hit me at once – including the hair-hair-kiss-crunch during our romping. GASP. Ladies and gentlemen [shit, are there even gentleman that read this blog?] … that was when I stared at my husband and grinned. He looked at me all worried and said, “What?” Oh yes. I had realized that the something crunchy that I couldn’t work to the front of my mouth during our smoochy smooch was not another dry-shampoo and what-not hair. It was my husband’s booger.
I HAD EATEN MY HUSBAND’S BOOGER FOR BREAKFAST. And I know this because when he flipped on the bathroom lights and smiled at me I noticed he had a few boogers stuck on his nostrils and mustache. Don’t call me judgy please; I’d taken care of the grouch for weeks in his flu-like state, the days of which included tons of boogers on his nostrils and mustache. However, that had slipped my mind when he slipped his tongue into my mouth.
I began to laugh. The kind where you have to hold your belly and you slide down the shower wall. I told him the story as I laughed it out and he laughed, too. I mean, his wife ate his snotty crunchies by accident. I eliminated any humiliation he might have felt by eating the thing, so I mean, there we were. And he realized then more than ever how very, very much I love his Jedi ass.
Enough to eat his booger for breakfast.