“But you do it every night.” He’s trying to defend himself. A certain little habit. “I can’t help it. It’s your fault.” By turning the tables on me. “I can set my clock by you. It’s funny.”
It may be. I haven’t decided yet.
“Whatever, it’s weird. You know this. Right?” He doesn’t answer. Instead he laughs a holds-his-stomach-and-falls-over-like-a-school-boy laugh. I hide a grin and finish with, “Wait ’til I tell my sister.”
“Please do. Tell your sister that every night you wake up 30 minutes after going to bed jumping and screaming like a mad woman.”
He’s exaggerating. It’s not a scream. It’s more like a worried moan.
“And that you,” I poke him in the belly, “are standing over me in bear-claw pose, arms raised, growling like a beast.” It’s true. He even bought a pair of plastic monster hands. For effect.
“Those are fantastic.” He always brings up the rubber mitts. “And I know you’ve hid them.” He does the eyebrow stare. “Besides, you were acting banshee-like long before I came up with the bear idea.”
“Oh that’s right. Make fun of my issues.”
“Issues? An irrational fear of a bear attack is not an issue.” He starts to laugh again. “Bears in the city!” He’s doubled over in a gut-bust now. “Because it’s a jungle out there.”
I roll my eyes. The best I can come up with. The best I can ever come up with, is: “Bears don’t live in the jungle, goof ball.”
Seriously ladies. I know we put up with a lot in the name of love. But can anyone beat this?