If I got paid every time someone told me how lucky I am to have a husband that does housework,
I'd be a VERY rich woman.
And I am lucky. I know I am. I've seen the look in they eyes of women whose husbands never help around the house,
and it's a lonely, desperate look.
Every time I describe the dusting, and the vacuuming, and the dish doing he does,
the woman I'm talking to inevitably gets a far distant, dreamy look and I question if they're even actually hearing a word I'm saying,
or if I should actually be finding a cold shower to push them into fully clothed while I call some sort of hotline.
And it IS nice.
Most of the time it does have it's merits.
I actually cannot even remember the last time I washed an entire sink full of dishes.
And he does fold t-shirts in the most perfect little square pouch-like bundles you ever did see.
He should probably do a tutorial.
But there are times it is not so nice.
Like when he finds things men aren't supposed to find.
Take tonight, for example,
at the end of a very long, exhausting day I lay my head back relaxing in a nice hot bath with a good book when in he came holding the laundry basket.
And all was well and good, with me reading and him silently folding until, in my peripheral vision, I saw him dig through and find something that he then held in his hand and turned over again and again.
I saw him glance at me for a second, and then he started towards me.
What is it NOW? He already asked me about Chloe's blue tank top with the baseball sized stain...
"Babe," He began with a slow, questioning tone that I have learned leads to nothing good.
"What ARE these?"
I turned, already annoyed to be having my bath time interrupted by all his LAUNDERING.
And this is when he produced the object of his wonder.
The Spanx I may have just bought for my high school reunion.
The Spanx that at least four other women were grabbing at at the same time in the store because, after all, it IS reunion season.
The Spanx that were actually none of his chore-doing business.
Now, if you ALSO don't know what Spanx are,
They are basically girdles for the 21st century.
The most gloriously, wonderful thing that you never want any person seeing.
"They're Spanx," I said.
"Just put them with my underwear."
I turned away feigning nonchalance, while I attempted to stop his questions, and move him towards my dresser with my mind.
But he DIDN'T put them with my underwear.
He just stood there.
Turning them over and over in his hand.
Looking at the tag.
Flicking at the legs.
Holding them up to the light.
A look of true mystery on his face.
It was as if he'd found them on an archaeological dig.
I wanted to tell him to just, for the love of God, put them DOWN and stop trying to even figure them out.
Spanx are not a thing one even NEEDS to figure out, actually.
They just are.
Veritable partners with things like Time, and Space.
They're kind of like the butterfly wings of clothing.
They're smooth looking.
But you're not supposed to touch them lest they never fly again.
And through all of these thoughts of MINE, he was STILL holding them up.
And not just anywhere, but in the mirror, so that I could see not one, but TWO images of him investigating my woman secret.
It was torture.
I couldn't tell if he was trying to find the right way to fold them, or find the right way to try them on himself.
"They're like bicycle shorts," I offered. "For people who pretty much never actually ride a bike."
"But what are they FOR?" He pressed.
I'll tell you what they're NOT for:
They're not for stretching, and flipping, and poking,
and they're DEFINITELY not for you STILL to be holding and asking me about.
So you see?
Some women wish their husbands would learn to fold a piece of laundry,
Some women wish they'd unlearn it.