Gravity? I Dunno.

It was 6:15 in this morning. I wrote this the moment she stepped out the bedroom door talking to herself. Poor thing!

I’d gone to bed at 3:30, so naturally, I was having a wonderful morning.

My internal sleep radar noticed something wrong. Liz had slept through her alarms.

“Liz. Six fifteen.”

She grumbled, stirred, and began thrashing around, getting ready for work. I was face down in my buckwheat pillow, facing the door, doing my best impression of a corpse.

Then came a quiet announcement.

“I lost a sock.” she said, passive-aggreesively loud, for what is a 2am sleep interruption to me.

“It’s in the ceiling fan,” I muttered into my pillow.

“What?”

“Ceiling fan!”

She paused.

There was some rustling, the familiar sounds of someone gathering clothes, and then she started toward the door.

“Did you get your sock?” I asked.

“No. I can’t find it.”
Sleepy pause on my part.

“I said it’s on the ceiling fan.”
She looks up, sees it on the blad of the stationary ceiling fan over our bed.
“How’d it get there?” she asked.

Sleepy pause as my meat brain transmission shifted into passing gear and punched the gas, seeing the opening.

“Gravity? I dunno.”

She stood there for a moment.

I didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Didn’t offer an explanation.

Eventually, she headed out.

And as she closed the bedroom door, I heard her mutter to herself:

“I guess I must have kicked it up there in my sleep.”

I lay there, face down in my pillow, contemplating the extraordinary things a human mind will accept before seven in the morning.

You see, a few hours earlier, on my way to bed, I’d noticed one of Liz’s woolly socks lying on top of the covers.

Just one.

An odd place for a sock.

And I believe unusual behavior deserves an equally unusual response. Plus, the idea that popped in my brain was already funny to me. It was one of THOSE nights.

So I picked it up, DROPPED it carefully on a ceiling fan blade, and went to sleep.

That’s it. No elaborate plan. No expectation of a payoff. And my response at 618am? Not a lie.

Just a sock on a ceiling fan. I dropped there. I am a sarcastically literal literal sarcastic.

Three hours later, my wife had independently concluded that she’d somehow launched a woolly sock from the bed to the ceiling fan while unconscious.

And I hadn’t even suggested it.

I simply told her where the sock was.

Twice.

I’m going to hell.

Twice.

Here is where I’m telling her the truth. 😱

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And to ensure I get the Express Lane to Hell?

As I’m finishing up with my final edit before I publish, the dogs start barking out in the living room, and I hear Liz FRANTICALLY trying to keep them quiet since I’m still sleeping, as far as she knows.

Yup. Straight to hell.

Peace
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