Proof That I Married The Right Woman

(NOTE: Based on time elapsed since the posting of this entry, the BS-o-meter calculates this is 15.678% likely to be something that Ferrett now regrets.)

For months, my shampoo has been mislocated.
Which is to say that we mostly take baths in La Casa McJuddMetz, and the shampoo is on the upper shelf at shower height.  So whenever I want to wash my hair, I have to reach way up to grab it, risking tilting it onto my face.
The conditioner, however, is on the left-hand side at bath level, easily accessible.
This is a little annoyance, but it’s also constant.  Every morning, whoops, reaching up for the shampoo again.  And yet it’s never quite bad enough to bellow, “GINI!  GET IN HERE!  YOU’RE FUCKING UP MY BATH MOJO!”  Nor is it so annoying that I would remember to pull Gini aside an hour later, calling a bathroom meeting to go, “Look.  We need to talk about the shampoo incidents I’ve been having.” But apparently Gini likes it there.
So every morning: damn.  Damn.  Damn.  Damn.  It’s like being a bathtub amnesiac, vexed by the same poor product placement every morning.  It’s like my memory only works when my hair is wet.
So last night, Gini and I were confessing silly annoyances, and she said, “Oh, WAIT!”  Then she ran into the bathroom.
“Can we move the damn shampoo?” she asked.  “Where I don’t have to reach up for it every fucking morning?”
“Seriously?” I asked, clasping her hands in joy.  “I thought you liked it up there!”
“No!” she said, her face suffused with happiness.  “This shit is terrible!  Let’s move the shampoo!”
And together, we switched shampoo and conditioner, never feeling closer in our twelve years of marriage, realizing that yes, we’ve made the right choice and it must have been one of those bastard houseguests who fucked up our bathroom mojo.
Then we cuddled.  And this morning, my bath was awesome.

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