Self-imposed house arrest

I was enjoying a post-work, early evening smoke last week, when my darling wife approached me with a radical idea. She suggested I accompany her to the the supermarket, a monstrous, superstore-type Loblaws half-a-block from our house, instead of shutting myself in and away from the world for yet another night.

Not surprisingly, I protested with a string of excuses bordering on the absurd. She nodded patiently and listened to them all until finally, when I feared her eyes had rolled back into her head for so long that they might never recover their natural postitions, I relented.

"Of course," I told her, "I'll need to shower first. I look like crap."

"Well, you certainly must look your Sunday-school best for a trip to the supermarket," she replied, a not-so-subtle sarcasm dripping acid-like from every syllable.

I stared at her blankly, a not-so-fabricated dumb-guy look spreading across my face. She continued to appear unimpressed.

"Just put on a clean shirt and a baseball cap," she said curtly.

"I don't own a baseball cap," said I, stubbing out my not-so relaxing smoke and attempting to look stung.

"You can wear my Eagles cap."

"I am not putting on an Eagles cap," I answered steadfastly, crossing my arms across my chest for emphasis.

"Why not?" she asked, with her all too familiar face of exasperation.

"Because I'm a Steelers fan," I said smugly. "That's why not."

She picked up her keys and headed for the door, turning back to me as she swung it open wide. As she stepped out into the sweltering heat of the June evening she said, "You realize this is probably a sign of mental illness don't you?"

"I think she may be right," I said aloud to myself. Then I lit another smoke.