Undies

We had a slow morning at the Wettschreck house on Sunday, with a bit of cleaning, a bit of SportCenter and a bit of hanging out on the couch and chit-chatting.

Our youngest son Matt participated in all three, then headed off to work around 12:45 p.m.

 My husband Eric was anticipating the 2:15 p.m. start of the USA versus Canada hockey game, and trying to kill time until it started.

As I stood by the dining room table folding laundry while staring out the window and wishing for spring,  Eric walked over and asked if I wanted to wander up to the local pub for a beer. Everything else had been done at wander-speed that day, so it seemed like a good idea, I thought.

"Sure," I replied. "Just let me folding this load so it doesn’t get all wrinkled."

Then I looked down at what I was doing (I had been on auto-pilot) and realized all that was left in the basket of clean laundry was underwear.

"Oh, never mind, we can go now," I said. "I’m not worried about wrinkling this stuff."

Eric looked in the basket and saw a few pairs of his own underwear at the bottom.

"You can’t just let my undies get in a bunch," he replied.

That made me giggle, but I did finish folding the clothes before we left. Can’t have anyone’s undies in a bunch, after all.

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