Every once in a while, the husband has navy flashbacks. Not combat flashbacks, cuz he was cowardly stationed on an aircraft carrier providing air support from a distance with all the other pussies. The flashbacks he has are of the serious hygiene issues that he developed during his time in the service, like many navy men (I SO hope this phenomenae does NOT happen to navy women) seem to notoriously develop. I’m talking about the fact that they lose the ability to keep their asses clean. That is, if they ever had the ability to begin with, in which case, the problem is seriously magnified. Along with this, they adapt an I don’t give a shit (pun absolutely intended) attitude towards these issues. In fact, it becomes fodder for jokes. I spent enough time in the house the husband shared with some of them to see these issues firsthand. Hello? Four sailors sharing a house with as many others that could fit passed out (comfortably or not) on the available floor space with no care in the world except how drunk they could get? If there was a line for the only bathroom in the house? No worries, there’s always the backyard.

Where was I? Oh yeah. These flashbacks are not pleasant for me. I mean, can I help it if I have a very good sense of smell? I realize that he would rather not be told that he fucking smells like shit (literally). I get that. I actually agree with him; I don’t want to have to tell him that either. However, I would rather not be subjected to the reminders of the days when he wore his underwear for 5 days straight. In my mind, not too much to ask for.