So, David is home from Australia. I can breathe now. I can also shower now, which is a huge relief to myself and people around me.
The whole week I had been trying to get up before the girls and sneak into the shower and sort of quickly wash myself off, being sure to hit all the major areas, before hearing Edie freaking out in bed, because I had the audacity to actually be more than six inches away from her at any given time.
This meant showering with the shower door open, so I could hear her. And using the shower head hand-held so that there wasn't a lot of rushing water around my ears, preventing me from hearing her outpouring of agony from the bedroom. I also didn't do any shower acts that would require a commitment of time, like, say, washing my hair, since I couldn't be sure that I wouldn't have to leap out of the shower with a full head of shampoo only to realize I was never getting back in the shower to rinse off.
I planned ahead.
So, by the time my husband walked in the door. I smelled okay, but my hair was like matted, dirty straw. I looked like a scare crow. So, one of my acts as a woman-with- a-husband-in-the-house was to have a long, hot shower. It was nice. Not one person sat outside my shower door and wailed tears of betrayal and abandonment. I was golden.
That is until I washed my bum.
See, that is when I felt something kind of smooth there. A smooth patch, if you will. And upon further investigation, I found that I was wearing a Chiquita Banana sticker on my naked bum.
Now, the funny thing about this is that David and I had some "welcome home" nookie about two seconds after he walked in the door, where we clutched each other feverishly and said hot, romantic things to each other, and fumbled around like the middle-aged adults we are and, like, either (1) he just didn't notice I was wearing a Chiquita Banana sticker on my bum or (2) he missed me so much he didn't care I was wearing a Chiquita Banana sticker on my bum or (3) he put the Chiquita Banana sticker on my bum while we were having the sex, as some kind of misguided spousal humor or (4) we were so caught up in the ecstasy of the moment, we made love in the fruit bowl and totally didn't realize it.
These are the things running through my head. It's all still a mystery to me. I mean, could I have been walking around with a Chiquita Banana sticker on my ass the entire week? What if I had been taken to the hospital for an emergency? Forget the clean underwear, would the trauma team have been able to hold it together after seeing a sticker that said "Fresh Tastes Best" on my ass? Am I really that uncool and pathetic these days?
And that's why I need to pay attention to my body a bit more. Or more precisely, what's stuck to it or hanging off of it.
I'll get right on that.