The Fight

"Do you have socks on," he says, snuggling next to me in bed.
"No, why?"
"You don't?! Those are your feet?"
"What?" I say, pulling my feet from underneath his.
"You ever use that foot scrubber in the shower," he giggles.
My eyes cross in furry.
"Oh, you must mean on the days that I actually get to shower."
"Don't get cross," he laughs. "I'm just teasing."
"Maybe if I could get a pedicure once in a while my feet wouldn't be so rough."
"Go get a pedicure," he teases. "I'll pay for it myself if it means softer feet."
He's roaring in laughter, steam is seeping out of my ears and eyes.
"And what," I whip the blankets back in hysterics, sitting up. "Have two children sitting on my lap while they scrape the layers of obvious repulsion off my feet? Or, no maybe I should go on the days you're off, wait, I can't do that, that would mean I'd have to drive to Pennsylvania with you, or maybe I should get up at 5 am before you go to work. Which one would you like, Huh?!"
His laughter gets even harder.
"That's it," I cry. "I can't take it anymore."
"What," through hysterics.
And then I said something that showed me just how crazy I was.
"I can't help how I look!"
More laughter as I throw my body back down on the bed and pull the covers over my head.
"Isn't that the line the girl said on Jersey Shore?"
So I'd been busted. But still it was true. My feet were gross, my eyes were tired, and I no longer look like my pretty self. And mentioning something about my rough cracked feet only reinforced the fact that I no longer feel pretty. The small statement hurt my feelings. Unfortunately for me, this is something a man will never get.
I fell asleep to the bed jiggling from all the shaking his uncontrollable laughter created.
Hmm, maybe tonight I'll paint my toes.