My Poor Husband

Anyone who knows me should be chuckling about the title of this post. There are any number of things that could generate a title like that.

The thing that comes out of Mr. Lyndsy’s mouth more often anything anything else is, “Oh Wife.” Usually I get this when I’m telling him about how I’ve just fallen, tripped over my own foot, hit my head on something. You get the idea. Something along the lines of “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.”

It could be about the fact that I am the definition of a pre-existing condition. I have almost as many diagnoses as I have fingers. If I really wanted to push my doctors I could probably get there. It seems that every time I go to the doctor, I come home with a new diagnosis. We’re both excited because I’m finally getting treated and getting everything sorted out. It’s not exactly a party though.

Perhaps it’s that he’s seen that I’m collecting something else. Lately I’ve been on a kick with Funko Pop! Vinyls. It’s not a new interest. I’ve been holding off buying them for so long. But after the last presidential election (day of), I walked into Walmart and Fear, Disgust, Anger, and Sadness from Inside Out were sitting on the shelves, staring at me. Since they mirrored exactly how I was feeling, I brought them all home. You can’t leave out Joy though! She brings the whole team together. So I ordered her online.

But no. This time I feel bad for my husband because by the time he gets home from work around 6:00 or 6:30 in the evening, I have long been out of my regular adult clothes. I’m back in boxers/shorts and a t-shirt. The bra has been flung somewhere to be found only when I am desperately running late for something.

Every now and then we go out in public and I’m dressed like a responsible-ish adult. But I wouldn’t say that it’s the majority of the times I wear clothes that that happens. I’m sure he wonders some days if I have even gotten out of bed. (Some days I haven’t.)

To be fair to me, his job involves him wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. When we go places after work or on a weekend, it’s shorts and a t-shirt. If he’ll be cold, it’s athletic pants and a t-shirt, with a sweatshirt thrown in jut in case. We rarely do anything that’s “fancy” enough for jeans.

But still, all of that is a step up from boxers and a t-shirt sans bra.