Feminine mystique? What's that?
I used to know, years ago. Back when I had some. Now, next to nothing is sacred.
Sure, I could be like my mom, a whole-hearted devotee of the June Cleaver movement, who gets dressed, puts on her make-up, and fixes her hair at 4:30 in the morning so my dad won't see her all dishabille before he's had his first cup of joe.
But 4:30 is hella early.
Heck, my husband is lucky if I wipe the sleep drool off my face before I kiss him goodbye. That's how I roll.
There isn't much I won't do in front of my husband.
Pop zits? Yep.
Pluck chin hairs? You betcha.
I draw the line.
I'm always amazed at how many married couples find this a perfectly acceptable practice. Especially if you have more than one bathroom and appropriately functioning bowels.
I set the solo-pooping precedent early in our co-habitation. There was to be no question--I don't appreciate an audience.
As far as my husband knows, I never poop.
It's how it should be.
But after a conversation with a good friend of mine yesterday--wherein she broke not only my cardinal rule of phone etiquette (don't talk to me while you're in the bathroom), but an unwritten, and much more self-evident one (don't talk to me from the bathroom while your husband is dropping the kids off at the pool)--I have to wonder if I'm not in the minority here.
Please tell me I'm not.