To be fair, I had an itch
"Are you always going to be the most awkward person in the room?" my #hothusband asks between bouts of laughter.
"What???????? I don't understand this question," I feign in mock confusion.
Mere moments earlier I had an itch. Unlike all other people, I didn't scratch it. Instead, I ran my itchy forearm repeatedly and aggressively across the back of my husband's shirt. In the cracker aisle of the grocery store.
In hindsight, this was clearly a faulty choice. But to be fair, my forearm bore a fresh tattoo in that very itchy stage that only a fresh tattoo can be. IYKYK.
Why not just tenderly scratch my own arm? Well, my hands bore uncharacteristically sharp talons. Like, "I will accidentally pierce my eyeball in my sleep with these daggers growing out the tops of my fingers, sharp." (A possibly positive side effect of menopausal hormone replacement therapy.)
It's really Jason's fault that I continue to be so awkward. He provides so much safe space for me to be me. And so, as I stood there suffering my itch, he conveniently bent to look closer at his almond cracker options. And then, I leaned in. I pounced. I furiously rubbed. Relief.
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