thematically fickle

Sam went to the store late on Sunday night and asked me if I needed anything.

“Preparation H, ” I told him. “For the bags under my eyes.”

“Preparation H. Got it.” Or so he said.

I had gone to the drug store earlier in the week to buy tampons and Reese’s Peanut Butter trees and there was simply no way on earth I was going to be the lady buying tampons, Reese’s Peanut Butter trees and hemmorhoid cream. At that point, I might as well wear slippers and some hot rollers to the store. Nope. I leave the big tasks to Sam, knowing he’ll always come through. He’s not too proud to take one for the team.

But when he arrived home, he had only a can of his favorite all-natural shaving cream.

“Where’s my hemmorhoid butter?” I asked.

“Your what? I thought you were kidding about that…”

“No!” I yelled at him, exasperated. I think I even rolled my eyes and threw my hands in the air as I said a dramatic, “Whatever…look at my eyes! The bags! They’re huge! I’m definitely getting cosmetic surgery.” By the look on his face, I might as well have added, “You know, I’m not angry. I’m just really disappointed in you.”

He stood there in his Dickies jacket, blinking, holding the shaving cream out to me.

“Maybe you could just try this instead?”