Seasoned

“No look, I’ll show you.” 
Pause. 
“Wow.  I was just about to lift up my shirt and then I thought, ‘No, there’s
got to be a better way…'”
– Kay

 I love my husband.  I do.  But I am more convinced than ever that he married me purely for the entertainment.  Last night, we both collapsed in the door feeling generally beaten about by the world (him from mid-terms, me from work), and dove straight into pajamas.  I was freezing so, against my will, I grudgingly pulled on my only long sleeve pajama top: a gray one with the words, “You, Me, and the Mistletoe” emblazoned across it that’s been in storage for a year.  (I’m breaking one of my cardinal holiday rules: one at a time!)  However, feeling toasty I forgave myself my Thanksgiving-overlooking indiscretion and happily relaxed, allowing J. to eat macaroni and cheese to his heart’s content while I finished off leftovers…until after we had cleaned up and I snuggled up against him for a hug…he leaned into my neck and smelled me.

Not adorable “I love your perfume” smelling, or even “I’m just trying to annoy you by doing weird things” smelling.  Full on, “There’s something wrong here” smelling.

dash“What?” I demanded, pulling away.
“No!  Come back!” he yanked me back against him, leaning down to bury his nose in my shoulder.
“What on earth is wrong with you!”
“You smell funny.”  Deep inhale again.
“Hey!”
“No, I mean you smell…” he sucked another sniff down before declaring, “like seasoned salt, or spices.”  A pause.  “Why?”
“You’re just picking on me.”
“No I’m not, take of your shirt and smell.”
“Of all the stupid-”
“I’m serious!”

Not only did I get my shirt ridiculously caught on my elbow (and therefore stuck), I didn’t even need to get it over my head before the unmistakable whiff of Cajun seasonings hit me full in the face. 

The great question for me is not J.’s “Why?” …but “How?!”

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