Ode To Dirty Husbands

A co-worker called me today to see if my husband had been at the gym around 10:30 AM. Knowing that Chris practically has an allergic reaction every time the topic of gyms/diets/healthy living/green beans comes up, I confidently replied that, no, Chris had not been at the gym this morning.

“Strange,” said my co-worker. “Because there was a guy there that was built similarly to Chris and he had paint in his hair so I was almost positive that had to be him.”

I hung up the phone and immediately ran to Chris and relayed the conversation to him, emphasizing that the key descriptive factor here was paint in someone’s hair. Chris shrugged his shoulders and said calmly, “I don’t go to the gym.”

“I know that,” I replied. “The point is not the gym. The point is that my co-workers associate you with paint in your hair!”

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh? That’s your response? You aren’t the least bit embarrassed that paint in your hair is a common characteristic of you?

No response. Conversation finished.

What do I do? What do you do with a dirty husband? I mean, he has to work and his work is sometimes dirty. But short of meeting him at the door every night with a garden hose, I’m not sure how to fix this issue. He is obviously okay with a little paint in his hair, a little steel on his hands, a little saw dust on his face. And while that is wildly attractive to me when we’re, you know, widdling things, it is not so attractive when we are in public.

I am going to need reinforcements. I’m calling his mom.