By Heather O.
So, I’m sitting waiting for husband to get home. Dinner has long been eaten, the dishes are put away, the child is asleep, and my husband is still not home. That’s ok, he said he had to work late. The time ticks away, and I realize that it’s 7 minutes past when he said he would be home. 7 minutes late! Where the heck is he? I tell myself not to get annoyed, because he is probaby finishing some project that took longer than he thought it would, and certainly these things are out of his control. After all, Dr. Phil has said that you can’t hold people responsible for things they can’t control. (And if you can’t trust Dr. Phil, who the heck can you trust?) So I remain rational, until I look at the clock, and realize that three more minutes have passed and he’s still not home! He’s now officially 10 minutes late! I can’t help it, I start imagining things.
I start with the mundane: the elevator is broken, he has to walk down from his office and his car is parked at the very farthest parking spot. Yes, that’s why he’s late.
I move on from there to the slightly more dramatic: He’s slipped on the ice, twisted his ankle, and is hobbling to his car. Poor guy.
Then I realize that one more minute has passed, and he’s still not home, and things rapidly progress to the morbid: He’s been in a car accident, his wallet was thrown from the car and the paramedics have no idea who he is and only notice after they have pried him out with the jaws of life that he has a wedding ring on, and they have to notify the FBI to track down his panicked wife. Oh my gosh, it could be hours before I hear about this!
Of course, after 5 more minutes have passedI can’t help going to the completely irrational: He’s having sex with his secretary, and he’s just now scrambling into his clothes while his hot blonde airhead with the big boobs begs him to stay just a little bit longer but he has to explain that he has to get home to his nagging wife or she’ll do something crazy, like show up at a meeting in the middle of the night with her slippers on! (um.. not that the slipper thing has ever happened. Who would do such a thing when she was nine months pregnant and it was February in Boston? Surely, only a madwoman.)
The screen door bangs, the front door opens, and my DH enters the scene.
“Where have you been?” I say, trying to sound casual.
DH looks puzzled. “Uhh-work? Where else would I be?”
“But you’re so late!”
DH looks at his watch. “16 minutes later than I said I would be. I’m not really that late.”
“I need you home when you say you’re going to be home.”
“I’m home! I’m 16 minutes late! What’s the big deal?”
“You could’ve been dead, you know that? All I need is a phone call to tell me that you’re not dead!”
And then my DH does something that makes me realize why I married him, why he is the ultimate Heather manager. He smiles, walks over to me, kisses me on the top of my head, and said, “You were having fun imagining things about me, weren’t you?”
Heaven help me when my son becomes a teenager.
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