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Listen. I KNOW I have a pretty sweet gig going on here. My hubby struggles out of bed every morning at five a.m., exercises, and then goes to work. FOR ME. I get that. Totally. I am completely, 100% grateful and aware of his devotion to his family. So when he asked me if I would come with him to his office lunch party, I thought, “Why not?” Because that is the kind of GIVING human being I can be too. I was willing to spare a morning and not ride my bicycle to go eat lunch with my husband and his co-workers. Is there really any end to my Yuletide generosity? When I tooled up to his office, I was already uncomfortable. The stupid Archway cookies I had been consuming constantly had taken a toll on my bod. My pants were tight. TOO TIGHT. Furthermore, I had to park really far away and kind of wiggle my way up to the door of his office. The high-heeled boots I had chosen to elongate my cookie-filled legs didn’t make the going any easier. I stood outside the building like a goofus in my suffocating pants with my large “Dirty Santa” gift. Finally he appeared. “Why are you standing outside?” My husband asked. “You told me,” I replied, “that I could not come in without you.” “You could have come IN THE DOOR.” He countered. “You just couldn’t get past security.” Ahead of me loomed the aforementioned “security.” Frankly, it was overwhelming looking. Four coded turnstiles with laser sensors. I had this frightened feeling like if I tried to make a break for it through the sensors I’d be blown to bits on the spot. A tiny part of me wanted to try it out and see what happened. “Sheesh.” I groused to my hubby. “It’s not like they are in danger of MY mind stealing the top secret nuclear projects.” “It’s just security.” He explained. “That’s not it at all.” Still, I felt a little INVADED when I handed over my driver’s license. I just wanted to eat some turkey and show off my new purple velvet vest that blessedly hid some of the extreme tightness of my pants. Imagine my SHOCK and HORROR when after cataloging the information off my driver’s license, the security chick handed me a badge. A badge on a ball chain. “I cannot wear this.” I told my hubby. “Oh, you have to.” He calmly replied. “It does not match my outfit.” I answered, as if the matter was settled. It was then that I noticed it. Blown up, distorted, and elongated was the VERY BAD PICTURE OF ME FROM MY DRIVER’S LICENSE! “Whoa.” I said, looking at my moon-pie face all stretched out across that paper badge. “Dude, I am NOT WEARING THIS.” I looked at the security guard. “This is HARSH! No one told me I’d have to wear my DRIVER’S LICENSE PHOTO AROUND MY NECK.” My husband was looking embarrassed. I was causing a minor scene. “Just wear it.” He pleaded. I put that ugly necklace of shame around my neck and entered the building. “There.” I said, tucking the offending object inside my vest. “I am not going to show everyone my driver’s license photo.” Again I thanked my lucky stars for the vest that had saved me not only from too tight jeans but now from the humiliation of the driver’s license photo. I made sure the license face was hidden and put on my best party face to return some of the joy my hubby gives me every single day.
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