I have been threatening a scandalous expose all summer.
The time has come.
“Honey, you look like one of those double-stuffed oreos from the back, except you’re milk chocolate instead of dark chocolate.”
Eric shoots me a look over his shoulder. Not an appreciative-of-his-wife’s-sense-of-humor kind of look.
“You know, baby, your tan lines. From swimming.”
Eric swims at noon two to three days a week, outside. He wears knee-length “jammers,” and the good Lord blessed him with fast-tanning olive skin. I love holding hands with him in the summer when his fingers are like the latte and mine are the steamed milk topping.
“Very funny. Don’t write about that.”
He hops into the shower.
“Oh, I wouldn’t write about that. If I did, people would be thinking about your naked hiney.”
“So, to be clear, you are promising me you won’t write about my tan lines?”
“That’s what I’m saying. I think people would be offended if I wrote about it. Children might see it.”
“OK. Good. Thanks.”
“Yup. You’re welcome. But I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for my readership.”
“Whatever, just as long as I don’t see some picture of my naked ass that you took as I ran from the shower some day.”
“As if. I have scruples, you know.”
My appreciation for said unclothed posterior is well-known in our family. One day I accidentally texted about my appreciation to his then-21-year old daughter, who forever more shall call him Sweet Cheeks and Honey Buns. She gets a kick out of it. Him…not so much.
I keep telling him it could be much worse. At least I really, really like him.
“What if I didn’t like you and I wrote about THAT?”
“What if you didn’t write about me at all?”
“Then you wouldn’t know whether I liked you or not!”
I don’t think he really means it.
So, anyway, I just thought y’all would enjoy the PHOTO, below.
No, this is not actually Eric’s butt. His is *at least* 10 times better; he may be a year or two past 27, but he is a workout fiend, which is not without its benefits. This is exactly what his tan lines look like, though. And he does have this bathing suit.
Have a good weekend,
p.s. No, of course he does not have THIS bathing suit…but pictures exist of him in a speedo, and the ever-present threat of me publishing them through the interwebs hangs like a guillotine over him. There’s a reason he’s so nice to me: fear.