Super Bowl Sunday
Last week I had spent the weekend in Michigan visiting my sister. Arriving back home late Sunday evening, I was tired after driving 200 miles in snow, but excited to finish the weekend with my husband. Shortly after walking through the front door I took off my "travel" clothes, anxious to get rid of that traveled-in feeling, and into something more comfortable. One of my husband's work polos was laying on our bed. Perfect. I slipped it over my head and joined him on the couch to catch the second half of the Super Bowl.
My nose was slightly drippy but rather than reach for a tissue, I swiped it across his sleeve, and happily resumed watching the game. He paused, looked at me and asked indignantly, “Did you just...? That’s disgusting!” (In my defense, he was in desperate need of a shower and his shirt needed to be washed anyway.) In retaliation he lunged to wipe his nose on my sleeve. But just short of his goal he paused, realizing I was wearing HIS shirt. A confused look crossed his face, followed by a scowl. “I hate you,” he said, as a smile found my lips, splitting into laughter at my unintended foil.