What were you expecting? Racy details of my secret trysts with the sexy mailman? Come on, if I was having that kind of affair, do you think I would post it on the world wide web for all to read? (For the record, my mailman isn't sexy. Actually, she isn't even a man.)
True story: I am so in love with sub sandwiches that I almost named this blog “Olives and Pickles.” I decided against it because I worried I'd end up weighing 400 pounds as a result of craving a sub sandwich every time I sat down to blog.
My sub sandwiches and I were living in bliss until a few weeks ago. My husband came home and saw a drink cup from one of the local sub places on the counter.
“How many days a week do you eat sandwiches?” he asked innocently.
I got flustered and broke into a cold sweat. I could feel my cheeks and neck turning red. I swallowed a lump in my throat and took a deep breath. My heart was racing. “I don't know,” I finally managed to say. “Maybe like twice or something.”
Six or seven times a week would have been more like it. But some part of me didn't want to admit it. It's not that my husband even would have cared, but I was like some kind of addict, clinging to denial that I did not have a sandwich problem.
I took the sandwich home and savored each bite. But when I was done, I got this nervous feeling. I didn't want my husband to come home, see the sandwich wrappers, and call me out on my “twice a week” answer. So I wrapped all the trash neatly into the sandwich paper and tossed it in the trash can outside.
As luck would have it, that would be the one day a month my husband decided to take out the trash without me nagging.
“How much do you think you spend each year on sandwiches?” he asked with a sneaky smile.
“What?!?” I said, “It's not that bad. I was in a hurry today and just had to grab something to eat while I was out.”
After that, it got worse. I'd crush up the trash, throw it away inside the house, and then cover it with dirty diapers just to make sure he wouldn't find it. I'd get cash back at the grocery store so I could have a sandwich fund that wouldn't show up on our debit statement. I'd scrub my hands and brush my teeth after lunch to make sure none of the delicious scent of sub sandwich lingered.
Finally, it got to be too much, and one night, I broke down. “I eat sandwiches pretty much every day,” I blurted out as we were watching The Bachelorette. “I'm sorry.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I know. Lucky for you, I'll probably never make you choose between me and sub sandwiches.”
Darn right because the only thing that might sway that ultimatum in his favor would be our wedding vows.
Kidding...I like him more than sub sandwiches. Most days.