There are no secrets in this house. Seriously. Everyone knows who had diarrhea this morning, who farted in the kitchen, and who still wears pull-ups to bed at night (spoiler alert: it’s me). But I was kinda hoping this one would stay on the “down low”, if you know what I mean.
No such luck.
I have a dirty little secret. Well, a hairy one. I have to get my lip waxed. (I just embarrassingly dove under a pillow for cover). I mean, the Hubby says it’s not that bad – bless his heart, but, let’s face it, there are extreme benefits to him being nice to me. Extreme!! You’d be amazed at what can happen in 5 minutes … or not so amazed, as the case may be.
Anyway, I finally decided to go get that unruly mustache waxed a couple years ago. I call it my Tom Selleck from a funny 30 Rock episode where Tina Fey revealed her secret compulsion to get her lip waxed on an almost daily basis.
What’s depressing is that my kids have now noticed. And if I go too long, it WILL be pointed out to me.
AD: Mom. (gives me a look with eyebrows raised, like, “I hate to break it to you”)
AD: It’s time. Your mustache is out.
Me: Are you serious? Is it that obvious? (I shoot a frantic look over to the Hubby who pretends that scrubbing our countertop has become his life mission)
AD: Yeah. It’s bad.
Jesus. If he’s talking about it that openly, then …
I force myself to stay in total denial about what is said about me both at school and on the bus by my kids. I would say that I pray my kids never say anything to their friends or their friends’ parents, or their teachers for that matter, but, like I said, I’m in denial.
So anyway, lately, I’ve become paranoid about it. I don’t know why (maybe cause my kids have been pointing it out to me??). So I am frequently touching my upper lip in a way to see if the hair is growing back. Of course, I do these things assuming no one notices me. And in this house, that is clear lunacy. But for some reason I choose to believe I can get away with it … wishful thinking, I guess.
We’re in the car the other day and I’m twirling my mustache murmuring “Curses! Foiled again!!” when the Hubby – who is so ridiculously politically correct with me, would never dream of uttering any words like “you look like you’ve put on weight” and has never ONCE addressed this “hairy mess” on my face, says,
“You really need to stop rubbing your mustache”
Looks like your 5 minutes are up, buddy!