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My dear wife and I are holed up in our bedroom upstairs at the moment, displaced by our daughter and her friends while they watch a movie on Netflix downstairs in our living room.  There is a new boy interest in our daughter’s life, a boy we just met for the first time a few minutes ago.

And my already over involved wife mother is obsessing.  And obsessing.  And, yes, obsessing.  Enough that I just want her to go away.  Please.  Please.  Please.

When I am annoyed, I talk in threes.

But she is not going away.  In our small house, there are not many places to go.  If you are upstairs, you are either in one of three bedrooms, the bathroom, or my walk in closet. 

Oooooo, now there is an idea.  I could hide in my closet, behind all of my spandex.

Yes, I have spandex.  Lots of spandex.  I have been bicycling for twenty years.  Like underwear, spandex is something a guy keeps for a long time.  I have spandex that is older than my children.  My wife forced me to burn all of my Fruit of the Looms when we got married and replaced them with spanking new tightey whities, then boxers during the “let’s make sure you have plenty of strong swimmers” stage of our marriage.

As a heterosexual male, wearing “FRUIT of the Looms” underwear kind of gives me the heebie jeebies.  Just sayin’.

My swimmers have been dog paddling for some time now.  We’re at that stage of our marriage and have been for far too long.  The cat gets more lovin’ spoonful than I do.

Which explains why I am sitting in my big desk chair, feet up on the bed, and blowing large amounts a male gaseous emissions with the hope that she’ll leave the room. My efforts are a waste, however, and not just literally.  She has not even acknowledged my best effort, a real Foghorn Leghorn, one every husband would be proud of.  A good wife would applaud.  Mine shuns my obvious talent.

I think I will place a personal ad at an adult dating site —

“Fifty-ish bored husband seeks sex starved housewife for an affair.  Must appreciate a good bottom burp.  Nice sized hooters are also required.  If you talk about your kids at all, I will wrap your entire head in duct tape.  Serious inquiries only.”

I will be overwhelmed with responses, I am sure. 

In the meantime, I will just hide in my closet.  Behind the spandex.  In my Fruits of the Loom.

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