The other week, my husband and I were grocery shopping at the Super Wal-Mart in town. We had just passed a giant display of 2-liter pop bottles when, without warning, he stopped walking and rubbed his hands together mischievously. I stopped the cart and looked back at him. “What?” I inquired. He spread his hands wide, as if to say are you ready for this big announcement? “I’m just trying to gauge…” he began. “Whether some Sprite might be in order.”
It should be noted here that the hubby and I never buy pop. I must confess that it is, in part, because we are both fairly health-conscious people. Yes – we are “those” people. We certainly drink pop, its just not something we usually have on-hand at home.
“Sprite?” I asked. “That’s a first. I thought you were a Coke man.”
“For you, babe,” was his chivalrous reply. Then he continued to hint, “I’m just thinking you’d like some sooner rather than later.”
The light dawned. He was referring, of course, to that certain time of the month when, for a woman, a little carbonation is nectar from the gods. Because, you see, that is the only time since being married that I have ever purchased pop.
I scanned my brain, trying to find evidence for his claim. Had I snapped at him recently? Been melancholy or morose? I didn’t recall. And the timing didn’t jive. How did he think he knew what my body was doing before I did? I began to gently correct him. “Babe, actually…”
And then it hit me. I chuckled; shook my head at my own density.
“You cad,” I teased. “How dare you couch your own desires as selfless, husbandly concern.”
We did buy the pop and, despite my protests, we actually got it just in time.