The Evening Exchange

30 Days of Cory- #8


I remembered Cory today by keeping our dorky, spontaneous humor alive.  Picture this conversation:


Tim stands in the hallway, his standard three feet away, giving me the report on his plumbing adventure of fixing the leaky sink today.  I, huddled under my covers, laptop in lap, paused my on-line tutorial on book-binding (that's right, I am officially that quirky old lady with multiple cats), to tell him about my visit to the podiatrist for my bum toe.


Are we in our sixties, or am I just imagining it?


I told him the funniest part is that since he's no longer interested in me, I haven't shaved my legs in quite awhile, and completely forgot this until I got to the foot doctor, and had to pull up my pant leg.  Complete and total mortification.  Chipped toe nail polish during wintertime and a period of heavy grieving is one thing, but abandoning the razor is quite another.  Some things should just not be allowed to happen.

"There I was, sitting there like...like...well, like -"  pause here for huge intake of breath, "a wooly mammoth!  Like a wooly mammoth!  I felt like a wooly mammoth...a wooly mammoth!"  This last bit sung in an excruciatingly off-key opera voice. 


This was a bit Cory and I had invented after scoring some of the best razors we'd ever come across in our shaving endeavors.  We ran around the house singing about wooly mammoths for a good two weeks.  Jake joined in.  Cory's cat, Church, belted it out in a style reminiscent of Barry White.  That's just what our household used to be.  I didn't fight it.  I leaned in.


Absolutely no one on earth but Cory would think this is funny.  And that's okay.


At least Tim had the grace to smile.


I waved at my husband, whose low sex drive has ceased to bother me, smoothed down my leg hairs, and giggled with my girl.