After we got married, I learned that I was pretty good at sneaking up on Rebecca to scare her. Hilarious! I also quickly learned that she really doesn’t like me to sneak up on her and scare her. Not so hilarious at all in fact it’s the absolute opposite of hilarious what am I, eleven years old?
(Do I spell out the word eleven or do I just type the number 11? English grammar is a dark, life-long journey.)
Later, I also learned that I’m pretty good at sneaking up on her and scaring her without even knowing I’m doing it. I’ll walk around the corner and start talking and it’ll startle her because she thought I was still in the other room. Or I’ll start hugging her while she’s doing the dishes and she’ll jump. My potential for oblivious stealth astonishes me (or, if you’re reading the Old Testament, I’d be “astonied”).
So a couple days ago I went into the bedroom to do something. I don’t remember what. Probably something totally awesome, like taking off my socks. Suddenly, Rebecca jumps into the room yelling something, clearly intending to freak me out, and IT FREAKS ME OUT. I jump like I just stepped on a scat mat. A really strong scat mat, in bare feet. If I had to spell what I yelled, It’d probably be “OH-WHAAHGH,” only louder, with feeling.
She got me. Well played, honey, well played . . .