So. Our heat pump is messed up.
I have no idea why it's messed up, but on Friday, it stopped working and we are sitting in, as Jason so attractively puts it, "ball soup".
Yesterday the high only got up to around eighty-five. Today, it's supposed to be in the 90's. The guy who lives next door works for a company that repairs heat pumps. Friday night he told us he'd come by around noon on Saturday and take a look at it. (We'll pay him of course). At around 3pm yesterday, he still hadn't showed and Jason, miserable and desperately hot, went over and knocked on the door. He was informed that he didn't really live there anymore, he just stayed there from time to time and apparently they had some kind of fight and she didn't know when/if he was coming and you know what that means?
Jason said, "Please let's just go somewhere for a little while" and we decided we'd go to Chick-fil-A because they have a huge indoor play area we could sit at for a while and also, we really like chicken.
Jason went to get dressed and he came out wearing...a tank top. A tank top that said, "Diamond Head Hawaii".
I have never in my life seen my husband in a tank top. Never. Jason wearing a tank top is like...seeing a nun in a bikini wearing a baseball cap that says, "Rock out with your cock out!" It's just not done.
He looked at me and said, "Yeah. I'm wearing a tank top. It's so hot I just don't even care."
And so I did what any loving, supportive wife would do.
I laughed so hard my sides hurt.
Not that he looked bad, mind you. Because he didn't. He looked fine. He actually has big arms that would make certain men wear sleeveless shirts everywhere, including church. But it was just so funny to see Jason in a tank top. I can't even explain why, really.
We got in the car, after he insisted that Boy Child change from a t-shirt to a tank-top so they would "match" and I asked him when he had went to Hawaii. He hadn't. His mom and step-dad had brought it back from their honeymoon. They got married before I even met Jason, so it's had to be like fifteen years ago, which is further proof that my husband holds on to everything way past it's prime. I don't care if it was the last thing hanging in his closet (and really, who hangs tank tops in their closet unless they are Hulk Hogan?), fifteen years of hanging there unused is a very, very long time.
We get to Chick-fil-A and sit down. Boy Child sits with Jason after insisting that "Tank-top dudes" have to stick together.
The people at the next booth over keep staring at Jason and his tank top. I said, "You know what they are thinking, right?"
"They're thinking, 'That guy wore that tank top just so he could show off his tattoo! Who does he think he is! This is a CHRISTIAN ESTABLISHMENT!'"
We hung out there for a while, enjoying the air conditioner. Finally, we decided to head back to our house.
As we were driving home Jason said, "I can't believe I'm wearing a tank top in public."
"I know," I agreed. "Even after almost nine years of knowing you, you're still full of surprises."
We were silent for a moment and then he asked.
"Is tank-top-in-public wearing a divorceable offense?"
"Maybe," I said.
"Are you going to divorce me and my tank-top, babe?"
And it's true. I won't even divorce him even though he closed a document I've been working on without saving and I've lost about six hours of work on it.
And that's definately a divorceable offense too.