The pube machine

I have been with James 22 years this July. For the bulk of those years I have believed, though I have never spoken it aloud, that he has a bizarre pubic hair disorder. He is, for lack of a better description, a pube machine.

In our 22 years together, I have found runaway pubic hairs everywhere. In the hallway. On my flip flops. In the vegetable garden. On the piano. In my purse. On the telephone. In the laundry soap. On the remote control. His pubes know no boundaries.

Over the years, I have quietly scooped away his runaway pubes in an effort to hide his disorder from the world. Though I have to restrain my gag reflex to do it, it is worth the effort to save him (and me) the humiliation of acknowledgeing his tragic affliction. I say nothing, to him or others. Instead, I silently hope no one notices.

James made pancakes for us this morning, which is quite possibly my favorite ritual of the weekend. The smell of late-morning pancakes on the grill and the sound of giggles from our five year old is the surest way to know the weekend has arrived.

But this morning our weekend ritual took a turn. When James brought my plate of pancakes, there it was. Staring at me with its thick, dark, curly glory was a runaway pube nuzzled up next to my steaming stack of pancakes.

I ended my silence. Pointing to pube in question, I said, "Missing something?"

He wiped the hair away from my plate. "What?"

"Your pube. I am talking about your crazy pubes. They are everywhere, you know, and now they have made their way to my pancakes."

"That is an arm hair," he said.

"Nope. No way. That's no arm hair, my friend."

He plucked a hair from his arm, and put it on my plate.

"Arm hair," he repeated.

And sure enough, there it was. I was confronted by indisputable evidence. It was thick and dark with a hint of curl, just like the hairs I have found almost everyday for the last 22 years. It is arm hair.

I spent 22 years thinking he had runaway pubes, wondering what in the hell he was doing that would cause them to show up everywhere. Now, 22 years later, the truth is revealed. No disorder. No affliction. No biggie. Just a case of hairy arms with a tendency to shed. I am feeling better about my life already.