“Hey, baby, where’s that yoga-ball chair thingie of yours?” the Man I Married asked. “Ya still got it?”
Since the chair was in the closet beneath a pile of baskets and purses, I could hardly claim that I was using it so MIM couldn’t. I had frequent, good intentions of unearthing it. My excuse, and I’m sticking with it, is that it’s too low for my desk. Neither could I claim that he wouldn’t care for it properly, since I wasn’t doing that, either. So I let him dig it out and haul it happily off to the Barage. He promised to return it in mint condition.
Evidence mounted that he was not using the yoga-ball chair to strengthen his abs. Flour was the first clue—odd bits of flour paste smeared around the kitchen, not quite cleaned-up evidence. But clue about what, exactly? Believe me, I’ve learned not to ask, especially when it was apparent that he was going to great lengths to keep his project under wraps.Read More »