My Trophy Guy

Okay. My husband is totally gonna kill me for this one, so don’t let it slip.

The other evening I was rushing around doing all of my usual Mommy chores, including the whole “laundry collection” thing. So I headed upstairs to the Master bath to get the dirties out of the hamper. I was in such a rush, I failed to notice that – beyond the obviously-closed door – the bathroom light was on. So I just threw open the door and headed inside.

And then I stopped dead in my tracks. My jaw hit the floor, and I nearly fainted. You see, I’d caught my poor, dear, sweet husband in the act.

No, sillies, not THAT act. Though I must confess that he probably wishes he HAD been up to "that." I mean, having your wife catch you with the Victoria’s Secret catalog in one hand, a dollop of hand cream in the other, and your pants around your ankles is one thing ... but THIS?

You see, he’d gotten into my makeup case, and was quietly applying some moisturizer to the just-visible creases at the corners of his baby blues. My husband, it seems, was trying out my wrinkle cream.

Now, you hear stories all the time about how men are a hundred times more vain than women. About their convertibles and their trophy wives. Even about their plastic surgeries.

But my six-foot sweetie? I bit my lip ‘till it bled to keep from laughing. And then, in a show of love and solidarity unmatched since I sponge-bathed him after a surgery 6 years ago, I stepped into the bathroom, quietly closed the door behind us, and opened one of the vanity drawers.

“Here, sweetie,” I said softly. “This is the stuff you use for nighttime.”