One of them is going to the hospital. But not just going to the hospital, going to the hospital under really sketchy circumstances. For example: yesterday, I was cleaning the apartment since I had a day off. One task was mopping the floor. So as not to get any cleaning detergent on my clothes, and since it was pretty warm, I stripped down to my underwear and a tie-dyed tank top that I had slept in.
So I’m happily mopping along, listening to the radio, when Single Ladies comes on. Now, obviously, no one who is home alone can listen to Single Ladies and not shake their booty at least a little bit. So that’s what I was doing: a bit of dancing while mopping the tile floors with soapy water in my tie-dyed underwear.
So I’m happily mopping along, listening to the radio, when Single Ladies comes on. Now, obviously, no one who is home alone can listen to Single Ladies and not shake their booty at least a little bit. So that’s what I was doing: a bit of dancing while mopping the tile floors with soapy water in my tie-dyed underwear.
Obviously, you can see where this is going.
Of course, I almost slip and, as I’m almost crashing to the floor, what flashes through my mind is the scenario where Simon comes home to find me bleeding to death on the floor and has to rush me to the hospital or call an ambulance, and I regain consciousness in the hospital as a Russian nurse is asking my boyfriend questions about why I’m covered in blood, wearing only a tie-dyed tank top and boxer-briefs, wet, and smelling vaguely of mountain freshness. And that, no matter how rational and accurate our explanation may be, she says something like, “well, you boys should be more careful next time; those towel racks come right out of the wall”.
Because worse than having to go to the ER for a sex-related injury is having to go to the ER for a non-sex-related injury that looks like a sex-related injury.
Of course, I almost slip and, as I’m almost crashing to the floor, what flashes through my mind is the scenario where Simon comes home to find me bleeding to death on the floor and has to rush me to the hospital or call an ambulance, and I regain consciousness in the hospital as a Russian nurse is asking my boyfriend questions about why I’m covered in blood, wearing only a tie-dyed tank top and boxer-briefs, wet, and smelling vaguely of mountain freshness. And that, no matter how rational and accurate our explanation may be, she says something like, “well, you boys should be more careful next time; those towel racks come right out of the wall”.
Because worse than having to go to the ER for a sex-related injury is having to go to the ER for a non-sex-related injury that looks like a sex-related injury.
LOL on "smelling vaguely of mountain freshness"
ReplyDeleteI checked the bottle. The scent is actually "flowers", which is infinitely gayer. I wonder if they make more masculine-scented floor soap. What scent would that even be...?
ReplyDelete