Due to a dearth of closet space in our new home, we’ve had to reconfigure some things. Mainly our clothes storage.
The boys have lucked out, their closet is sufficiently large and their clothes are all contained in their bedroom. The Mr. and Mrs. haven’t been so lucky. I have half of my clothes in our room, stuffed into a couple of dressers, and the other half in the basement. Just waiting for the day when I am able to wear them again, that is.
Mr. Johnson has most of his clothes stuffed into a dresser and closet in his office. Downstairs.
It’s a fine arrangement with occasional pitfalls.
Like when the professor decides to take a shower in the upstairs bathroom but forgets to take along a clean shirt. He either has to walk ‘all the way’ downstairs, post-shower, to get a shirt from his office, or he has to go shirt-less.
Or he could grab one of his wife’s tank tops from the bedroom.
‘Don’t you dare,’ I cautioned as he grabbed my pale gray Old Navy tank top, clearly intending to wear it. ‘Why not,’ he asked, surprised by my selfishness.
‘Because you’ll stretch it out,’ I declared.
My remark was followed by a moment right out of a Lucille Ball show, as both of us contorted our faces to express our immense outrage over the implications contained in my remark and his actions. Really, I’m not sure which one of us had a look of greater outrage: I, or the professor.
He, clearly thinking, ‘how could you – 38 week pregnant woman – possibly think I would stretch out your tank top?’
And I, thinking, ‘how could you possibly infer that I am larger than you?’
‘If you put that on, I will blog about it,’ I warned him, using the only ammunition at my disposal.
He pulled it over his head in triumphant defiance.
And I immediately pulled my computer to my lap and started typing defiantly.
I shan’t reveal who wears it best.