This morning Paul and I took the cutest dog in the world (she is, and I won’t hear another word — I’m sure your dog is cute too) to the “nice” dog park, that is, the one with trees and grass rather than wood chips and dust, about a 15 minute drive from our house, with plans to go out for brunch after.
Driving to the park, in response to his probably-not-out-of-thin-air-but-I-don’t-remember-the-lead-up that he could smack the tops of my thighs, I replied that he could, but as I was wearing think white cotton jeans it would likely hurt him at least as much as me. We were stopped at a traffic light — I was so unconcerned I didn’t even look up from my phone.
Until he told me to take my jeans to my knees…
“I can’t do that.”
He assured me I could and would. Surprise! I did, fully aware there was a van next to us. A van whose driver was so much higher up. And at that moment, glancing over into the car. (BTW, I’m not sure who’s writing this because I definitely died from the sudden flush of embarrassment). His hand smacked down hard, once on each thigh. Because balance is important or something.
The light changed, we turned the corner and passed another driver who could definitely see down into our car. I expected Paul to say something along the lines of “Be a good girl and pull up your jeans,” but as we drew up to the next light, he told me to move my hands out of the way.
Two more hard smacks.
That was when I learned the “rules” of this new game. My thighs would be smacked at every traffic light between our house (first two lights, check), but only if the lights were red because, as was explained to me, “we have to drive safely.”
Reader, there were a lot of lights. Too many of them were red. I know there were a least five, but am leaning toward seven. Or maybe fifty. As we approached each light I both willed us to go faster and prayed we would not pass SUVs. Neither seemed to work. The embarrassment added another level to the sting.
I couldn’t pull my jeans back up in the car, even when we’d parked. I had to slip out of the car, yanking and fastening as I went. The only good thing was I was wearing a longish top.
The pictures above are my bruised thighs. I confess I’m rather pleased with them. I have a kind of olive skin that generally doesn’t bruise or even redden much. Except, clearly, my thighs.
My dilemma, aside from figuring out how to amusingly explain these should anyone ask, is whether I should start wearing skirts so as not to be riding around Southern California with my jeans pulled down to my knees. Or would that make this new game more likely to be repeated, often?
I can but hope.