Adam’s pants have been a problem
since the outset.
It started before we were ever
married. I frequently tell the story
that just weeks before we tied the knot, we started cleaning up his house. And by cleaning up, I mean totally
overhauling. Anyway, Adam had a “clean
clothes room.” This meant anytime he did
laundry, instead of hanging up, folding, or even shoving freshly-dried apparel into
the dresser drawer, he would throw his clothes into the spare room. Hence, the Clean Clothes Room. But the point is this…we were going through
the Clean Clothes Room and sorting the sea of garments into piles: Keep -
Donate - Too Worn to Donate. I picked up a pair of boxers (which, just by
the way, never landed in the donate pile… we’re not freaks or anything). The boxers were so worn-through, that it gave
threadbare a whole new meaning.
You could see through the thin veil of what remained: the Clean Clothes
doorway, through the kitchen, and all the way into the living room. Seriously, THIN! Then, about half way through the sorting one
of us picked up a white undershirt, unearthing the rounded arm of a
love seat.
I THOUGHT I THREW THAT COUCH AWAY!!!
So…yeah. He lost a couch . . . in a small, three-bedroom
house . . . under what he maintains were clean clothes.
That’s how the pants debacle
started.
But lack of pants has also been a
problem.
One night in 2012, Adam got out of
bed to go check a noise. When he came back to bed, I heard him stop in the
hallway. Moments later I heard him
walking again. … Stopped, again … He did this several times until he finally
made his way back to the room. I asked
why he had stopped. He said I kept
hearing a weird noise…like a swishing sound…then I realized it was just my
thighs rubbing together.
But then, there was the time I
washed his iPod mini. In my defense,
cargo shorts have a bunch of baggy pockets.
That and the fact that he’s a grown man who should clean out his own
pockets…
And then there was the time I
washed his pricy Bluetooth earpiece in his jeans pocket. We replaced it with a new one. Also pricey.
And the new one got washed too. Not
once but twice.
Or the one time there was a gel
pen that, of course, got washed with his brand new khaki work pants.
And then there are the paint
markers… Yeah, P.A.I.N.T. … He uses these at work, but they get clipped
in a pocket and never get taken out until the wash cycle is finished.
And then there was Friday
night. Somehow, we aren’t sure…gum got
washed with our nicer work and church clothes.
GUM. And clearly, it was more
than just one piece. So instead of a date
night or a regular run-of-the-mill kind of evening with the kids, we picked gum
off of clothes for the greater portion of two hours. TWO HOURS, y’all. At one point, I was sure I was getting new
cardigans out of the deal. We picked,
peeled, and goo-gone’d patches of minty fresh gum while the kids ran amok. And then we re-washed the clothes. But when they came out, there was still more
GUM. So I cleaned the washing machine,
picked more gum off more clothes until my fingertips hurt, and then I re-washed
again. And yep, you guessed it… MORE
GUM. I’m a little less than thrilled - I’m
tempted to blame the washing machine cleaning tablet company but it’s more
likely operator error.
33 years on this earth and I
suppose it’s time I start checking pockets.
From the Fullness of His Grace,
Lacey
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