There is one extremely embarrassing moment in any marriage that cannot be avoided. A defining millisecond that makes you just want to curl up in your ratty, coffee-stained terry cloth robe, under your bedsheets that haven't been changed in three weeks, behind your well-worn copy of Dune and never come out.
Nope. It's not when you fart in front of your husband.
Nope. It's not when he walks in while you're making your I need more fiber! face.
And nope. It's not even when he walks in while you're changing out your chartreuse flamethrower*.
It's when he breezes through the bathroom and spots the bleach/hair remover cream on your upper lip.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that was the moment yesterday when I wanted desperately to crawl into a hole and die. To admit that I have unwanted facial hair and that I have to deal with it on a regular basis is a conversation I have avoided for almost 21 years. And to "get caught in the act" by the Ty-man? Oy.
In order to avoid any future embarrassment, I have decided to just damn the torpedoes, damn the secrets, and damn that Sally Hansen bitch to Hell and grow myself some honest-to-Tom Selleck upper lip pubes.
I'm trying to decide on my new look. What do you think?
I could just let it grow however it wants to grow:
Get something a bit more manicured:
Then there's the whole handlebar thing:
And let's not forget the classic 20th century European dictator look which may get me on Avitable's masthead:
And speaking of Adam:
What do you guys think?
*Berkeley Breathed? Bloom County? Opus and the gang? Never mind.