That’ll Teach You To Keep Your Schweddy Balls Out Of My Bike Shorts

My husband and I share a lot of things. I never worry that we will become one of those couples who have nothing to talk about once the kids leave home. One of our common interests is road cycling, which he got me into and which I have spent years using as my excuse to exercise. Cycling receives the highest accolade I can offer any type of exercise; I don’t hate it.

Today, hubby came home after a couple hours with the kids at his parents’ place and said he wanted to take a ride. I had hoped to get a ride in too, but because I could have done it while he was gone and chose instead to tackle the Everest-sized pile of ironing in our room, I was in no position to cry “not fair” on him. He got geared up and told me he was leaving. I was still ironing and lost in the middle of the latest episode of Mad Men, so I didn’t pay much attention to him before he left. In fact, I’m pretty sure that as he was telling me for the third time that he was leaving I uttered a barely interested, “Aren’t you gone yet?”

When he returned, he got showered and went downstairs. I again didn’t pay much attention to him as I was still ironing (did I mention this pile was huge?). When I had at last finished my epic pile of laundry, I realized it was too late for a ride and went to take a shower. When I walked into the bathroom, I noted with disdain that Steve had left his sweat-soaked bike clothes in a pile on the edge of the bathtub. I hate that. Then I looked at the pile again more closely. Those looked like my bike shorts. I felt my forehead crinkle, my brow furrow, and my head cock to one side. Had he really worn my bike shorts by mistake? Certainly there was no way that could have happened. I walked downstairs.

“Ummm…I think you might have worn my bike shorts on your ride,” I announced.

He looked at me. “No. Those were mine,” he answered confidently.

“I don’t think so. I think your bike shorts have a different type material in the crotch than mine do.”

“They were in with my stuff,” he said, as if the pile of gear he had in his office was impervious to mix-ups.

I didn’t feel like arguing with him, so I shrugged it off and went to get in the shower. First, though, unsatisfied with his pronouncement, I checked my sports-bottoms drawer. My shorts were not there. Curiouser and curiouser. I was now absolutely certain he’d worn my shorts. He must have suspected the same thing because he came up to inspect the dirty shorts. Then he confirmed what I already knew; he had indeed worn my bike shorts on his hour-long ride.

“Wow,” I said, unhappily. “That’s scary.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I think that I was actually faster today while wearing them,” he said.

“Nope. Not helping.” I paused thoughtfully and then continued. “I’m not sure if I am more disappointed that you’re small enough to wear my clothes or more depressed that my bike clothes are big enough for a man to wear.”

“Well, I think the key to remember here is that those shorts are spandex. They stretch a lot.” He was trying really hard to make us both feel a measure better.

“I’m going to need to go shopping tomorrow,” I told him.

“For new bike shorts?” he replied.

“Yep. I mean, I can’t wash those shorts in water hot enough to undo the damage you’ve done to them.”

“Listen,” he said, “this is as bad for me as it is for you. Let’s not speak of this ever again.”

I agreed. And then, for extra insurance that he never carelessly places his Schweddy balls in my bike shorts again, I wrote a blog about it. 😉