I wonder what my husband thinks when I ask if I can borrow his car. I unlock it with the actual key (*gasp*)instead of a fob, because the dang thing is ancient. When I get in, the seat is so far back, I feel like I'm driving like a gangsta. The mirror is tipped upward and rock music comes blasting out of the stereo. I crank the seat forward until I can basically honk with my boobs, I lower the steering wheel until I can steer with my knees, I pull down the mirror so I can see behind me (since I'm short) and I flick that radio station to 99.9 Magic FM (**Deliiiilaahh**). Upon getting out of the car, I gather up the old apple cores, empty Tupperware containers, and random pieces of trash scattered throughout the vehicle. I place any loose change in the cup holder and organize whatever other junk might be present. I can only imagine how he feels when he gets BACK in his car the next day. Barely able to squeeze into the drivers seat, his knees don't fit under the steering wheel, he's glancing at the back seat instead of what's behind the actual car, and Gloria Estefan is heard in a low hum. The trash is missing, and it smells like Britney Spears perfume throughout that little sedan. I might be a mom. I've crossed over to the dark side. I'm sure he never thought the day would come when his wife was cleaning up after him and he has officially become the third child of this little family. I sure do love my third child, though.
Sincerely,
Me.
No comments:
Post a Comment