Last night as we were getting ready to go to bed (early, of course), we were both in the bathroom getting ready to brush our teeth. I casually asked Wyatt if he liked the white shorts I had been wearing that day.

(We have had several conversations in the past couple weeks about girls in white shorts. Guys seem to like it. Apparently, they’re sexy.)

And instead of just saying yes, as he easily could have done if he was less honest, he said, simply, “Yea, but they’re kind of grannyish.”

What?

“Grannyish?”

Not cool.

To clarify, Wyatt seems to think that, overall, I have a rather “granny-like” style. (I would define my style as more a mix of classic and vintage with some funky twists. Wyatt says vintage equals granny.)

So, back to the bathroom last night. We’re standing there, brushing away, and after the granny comment, I’m stewing to myself, frustrated that I went out of my way to buy white shorts that were shorter than I normally wear, in an attempt for that sexy, classic, clean look they supposedly give, and he thought they were grannyish. Grrr.

(Turns out it was because they had eyelets. Apparently, eyelets can’t be sexy.)

So, I’m instantly a bit grumpy, not exactly the effect he had been hoping for, although if he would have thought about it, he probably could have guessed what my reaction would be. And since I usually wear my heart on my sleeve, (0r, in this case since we were getting ready for bed and I was already wearing just my “pj’s”, a bare arm), I wasn’t hiding my disappointment well.

To set the scene a little better, Wyatt’s at his sink, shirtless. I’m at my sink, pantless. I’m pouting. He’s trying to figure out how to get me to stop being salty.

So he decides the best course of action will be to just hug me. So that’s what he does. Mind you, we’re both still brushing away. So, he grabs me and pulls me to him, and as I’m trying to stay pouty, I look up and see our reflection in the mirror. And instantly, for some reason I still can’t remember and that isn’t important, I immediately start to smile.

And then I’m laughing.

(Which makes it VERY hard to brush your teeth.)

And I end up spitting out a little of the toothpaste, dribbling some down my chin, and missing my mouth with the brush, getting toothpaste on my lip.

So, now, obviously, Wyatt’s laughing, too.

And then, we’re both choking on the toothpaste, laughing, and coughing. (Or rather, Wyatt’s coughing, because laughing still makes him cough.)

Either way, we didn’t go to bed angry.