I’m a kind, loving, and mostly-reasonable wife. Or, at least I’d like to think I am. We’d have to double check with The Man after this confession goes live to be sure. I’m confessing this morning about something I did that I’m sure my husband won’t be pleased to find out about, but it made me feel good so I did it. Don’t judge me until you read the whole story, ok?
So when my husband was just my boyfriend he would come and spend the night at my place and bring these hideous old khaki shorts to sleep in. Note: I purposely chose the word “hideous” to describe them. It is not an exaggeration; if anything it’s an understatement. Back then (seven years ago) they were awful – there were giant rips and holes everywhere and yucky mysterious stains here and there. I teased him constantly about them but he told me they were his favorite because they were unbelievably comfortable and he’d had them forever – yeah clearly. So I let them slide for a few years. He’d wear them when he cooked, when he cleaned – even when he hopped out the shower and had to iron his clothes. They were like his security blanket, if you will.
Around year five of our relationship The Shorts started to really eerk my nerves. He started leaving them on when company stopped by and the holes had only gotten larger. At this point, there was so little of the shorts left it was almost as if he was walking around in his underwear. I begged him to stop wearing them, but he wouldn’t. Like ants in the summertime, they just kept coming back, and back, and back!!!!
Tired of waiting for him to make good on his promise and lay them to rest I started offering to do his laundry with the hopes that I could secretly “misplace them” and he’d just move on. Once I hid them way, way back in the depths of my closet. It took him a few days but he was frantic, and he searched until he found them. Another time I thought he’d be gone all day and I tossed them in the trash, but forgot to tie it up and take it out. He came home and saw them sitting on top of the pile and lost it. From that point on he guarded the shorts with his life. This went on for another year and he was so good at keeping tabs on them, I didn’t even get a chance to lay a finger on them unless he was wearing them (if you can call it wearing them) around the house.
Then the other day he went to bend over to grab the trash, while wearing The Shorts, and I literally saw his manhood (yes, manhood!) peek out of the gaping rip where the bottom of his pocket used to be. Enough, I thought! I slipped him some extra wine before bed and waited for him to take them off and hop in the shower. I hid them, hoping he’d be just tipsy enough not to notice they were gone. It worked! That night while he was sleeping I ripped them to pieces (which took maybe two yanks, they were so ragged at this point) and bagged up the remains. Then the oddest thing happened. I was overcome with simultaneous feelings of guilt and relief. I felt terrible about destroying my husband’s favorite shorts, but thrilled at the fact that I’d prevented his little man from accidentally showing himself to one of our female neighbors when he was taking out the trash.
So, yes, I did it. I destroyed my husband’s favorite shorts. Man, when you read this please know that I am sorry if this news hurts you, but I am not sorry that I did it. Sometimes a wife has to do what a wife has to do. Do you agree? Or was I wrong to take matters into my own hands here? Go ahead, let me hear it. I’m a big girl, I can take it – promise!