Saturday morning

I look forward to sleeping in on weekends.  But that didn’t happen this morning.

My husband had an event at 7 a.m. for the Retired Seniors Volunteer Program.  I didn’t RSVP.  I wasn’t in the mood to volunteer for anything that disturbed my sleep.  He was going alone. 

He started out as quietly as he could, considering he’s the chatty Reporter and all.  But it was short lived.  I heard him scavenging, meaning he couldn’t remember where he left his wallet from the night before.  I ignored the rattling noises as best I could.  Until he beamed a flashlight in my eyes.  “Sorry,” he said, turning the bedroom light on.  “I have to do it.”

I tried not to move, to give any indication of life.  I gathered the whole story from his mumblings.  “Let’s see,” he muttered, “I must have left them in my sweat pants.  Ummm.  Where’d I take them off?”

If you’re thinking sexy, think again.  He wears at least three layers.  He’s prepared for all temperatures.

Out of desperation, I rose from my disturbed rest and scouted the room out.  I said not a word.  Then I traveled to the other rooms in the house.  The Reporter and I crossed paths a couple of times, but I never uttered a sound.  Finally, I spotted the sweats underneath his pair of running shoes.  I’m sure he’d seen the shoes as he wandered around on his early morning quest, but he never bothered to look under or behind anything.  I know.  I’ve seen him try to find the milk in the refrigerator.  It always surprises him when I move a jar of jam and a gallon of milk magically appears.

I passed him in the hall and handed him his wallet.  “Goodbye, Marcel Marceau,” he said, heading to the garage.  I pulled a white glove out of the drawer and waved.

Later that morning, I met my daughter and a good friend for lunch.  I conveyed my early morning interruption to the two – also non-morning comrades.  They laughed when I explained my silent sleuth work.  “I waved as he left,” I said.

“I would have been tempted to give him the single finger salute,” Janice revealed, “if he woke me up at six on Saturday morning.”

“How could he not see a pair of pants under his shoes,” the GAP asked.

“How big are his feet?” Janice questioned.  Both women looked puzzled.  Then a bolt of light struck Janice.  I saw it hit.  “Maybe it was a Speedo with a pocket.”

“Ugh,” the GAP groaned.  “Now that’s a visual I’m not going to get rid of easily.”  The horror could stem from this image I found on the web.

We laughed until our stomachs hurt.

Tonight when the GAP and her family came over for dinner, I peeked my head out around the kitchen archway.  “Pocket, pocket, pocket,” I whispered to her.

“Ugh!  Mom!” I heard, as she jabbed an imaginary ice pick into her eye.

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