Poor Stevie

breaking out

First, let me say this: J-man is the kindest, most loving, supportive, considerate and wonderful husband. He comforts me every single Sunday night when I am sad the weekend is over. He tells me he loves me everyday. He reassures me that I do not have a moustache. He compliments my outfit every morning. He pretends to be interested in Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. He tries weird vegetables to support my new-found vegetarian-ish diet. At the top of the escalator at Wynyard, he decides he will go back down to buy me a rose from a sad-looking guy who is not making any sales late one night.


 

Now let me say this: J-man gave me a rash last week. An angry, mysterious rash.

This thing was brutal, it was all over my body and spreading faster than a Hustler centrefold.

I put it down to a weird reaction to suncream, because there was nothing else I had lathered all over my body. Then I started to suspect foul play from J-man, thinking maybe he was secretly using some sort of man lotion called “God of Flame and Fires” and was too ashamed to tell me. I took an antihistamine and figured that was the end of the story.

The next day it flared up again and and people around me were looking concerned, urging me to go to the doctor. Pfft I’m no wuss, I thought. Cut to about ten hours later when I snapped awake at midnight, itching all over and experiencing pain in my neck. That’s it. It’s meningitis and I am going to die. I woke J-man, tearfully told him of my fate and he took me to the bathroom where he bludgeoned me to death with the toilet brush ran a cool towel over my skin.

The next morning there was no evidence that I had died in my sleep, so I got on with living.

Then yesterday we decided to go to the beach, but hadn’t yet replaced the giant tub of suncream that had apparently offended my body so much. I threw caution and my good looks to the wind and rubbed it on. Nothing. Totally fine. No bumps, itches or calling of caterers to make bean nachos at my wake.

When I picked up my beach bag and looked inside, it suddenly dawned on me. The week before J-man had picked a little bottle out of the pantry to fill with suncream, so we didn’t have to lug the entire tub to the beach.

That little bottle in my bag had until recently contained hops – those pungent, stinky, highly-perfumed, gag-worthy, wheaty things you make beer with.

“Oh,” J-man said. “That’s it. It would’ve been like you were rolling around in grass for hours.”

Should I start the slow clap or will you?

 

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