This posting is in the spirit of “how could life be all somber or insufferable for very long (not that it isn’t those things at times . . . for real for us), when for real, for us, stuff like this happens:

I offer exhibit A: the compliment I received. I was told by my wife that she wished she could learn to iron her clothes like me.

Rightfully proud in that moment, I sought more praise. “How so,” I asked under the melody of innocence.

She went on, “Well, you make it seem so easy.”

Again, ever so modestly, I boasted my reply, “Yep, it is, when you do it right.”

“Your way, right?” she asked.

I heard, “You’re always right.” (Do note: I missed the question mark/tone, as well as missing her wording entirely.) Fault/No-fault, whatever . . . I’m ok either way.

     And so, I replied, “Yup.”

(For the next few moments, we were not playing from the same sheet of music, which can be a daily comedy routine between us, so I won’t repeat that mish-mash here.)

     After the fog of confusion had been cleared, I—quite true to form—brought the subject of ironing back up. I suspect myself of searching for one more morsel of that feeling of righteousness. (I know, I know, it’s about friggin’ ironing—but I’ll take validation wherever I can from her . . . my issue, I’m aware.)

“So, you were saying, . . .” was my segue (Segway?—tomato-potato).

“Oh, we’re back to that, are we?”

I froze. It was the tone. I instantly sensed a trap had been sprung. It was too late. 

She was already standing up. “Yep,” she exhaled as she half-stretched out her arms, “Who knew? All those years I used flat surfaces and heat, when all I had to do was like you,” and she proceeded to brush one hand down her front followed by the other in a smoothing fashion. “There, that’s better,” she declared. “Just like you.”

She winked.

I did the shrink, along with my own wink.

Laughing all the while.

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