my life, guys.

Is it just a husband thing to be ready for any event in a matter of minutes, and then look upon his wife and kids with a “tsk” in his eye…?

I get it. We’re slow. Like, exceptionally slow. We’re the most low maintenance people that you’ll ever meet, we’re just really REALLY slow.

SORRY NOT SORRY. (I’m actually mostly sorry.)

I typically blame it on having to get myself ready, which – let’s be real – doesn’t look like much, but then also having to round the kids up and convince them to wear weather appropriate clothing, preferably forward-facing, and without ketchup on it. It’s no easy task, but I’m often left to it alone while my husband sits in the car.

Yea, his sitting in the car used to drive me crazy, but it’s a flaw I’ve grown to accept because that’s what you do in marriage, I guess. I accept his waiting in the car like we don’t even exist, and he tries really hard to just accept the sound of my coughing fits when I have a cold/flu.

Be still my heart.

Anyway.

Years have taught him, though, that rather than just heading to the car, it’s good social (and marital) etiquette to at least let us know that he’s ready and walking out the door. He actually does one better now and will say things like “guys, get your coats on” or “let’s get in the car.” I mean, he does those things whether your hands are covered in Fudgsicle from Grandma’s house or not, but baby steps. So on Thanksgiving, my son comes running up to me – hands covered in Fudgsicle from Grandma’s house – and whines “Mom, I need to wash my hands but Dad’s making us get ready to leave by saying the weird thing he always says…!”

“Oh my gosh. What’s the weird thing he always says…?”

Embarrassed, and through gritted teeth, my son says “that we need to bounce like Beyoncé…”

And then there’s that.

like lichen, only weirder

“…this honestly sucks. The juniors section is full of hi-low tank tops and short skirts, but it’s like – I’m 32 years old. And the misses/women’s depts. are full of khaki capri pants and flowery blouses. KHAKI CAPRI PANTS, NATE. Think about my life and tell me if you ever see me wearing those. Honestly, the best shirts are in the men’s section, but then I’m all ‘Oh, I really want this Star Wars t-shirt, but it doesn’t fit right because I’m not a f*cking rectangle’…”

“Geez, ok. So did you get anything?”

“Yea. Ripped jeans. From the Juniors section. Thanks, btw.”

He gives me the Kohl’s cash from his b-ball shoes purchase, I give him a pms-inspired earful of my thoughts on clothing choices – symbiotic relationship x infinity. (I kid, I’m probably the worst wife.)