I have a bunch of guys. Many in fact. They follow my husband around and by proxy I am expected to care for them as well. No matter where we go or who we are with, the guys are along for the ride.
“Sweet! Honey, honey, honey, that’s my guy!”
Oh boy, here we go. “That’s nice dear.”
This exchange happens at least three thousand times a day in my house, I swear. There are many guys. They come and go. Some are awesome and some just tread the wrong way. And they keep coming. All year-long they come. They are dependable in their achievements and failings.
“Yes! Did you see my guy?”
“No! What is wrong with my guy?”
During the fall it’s “That’s my guy!” every Thursday, Sunday, and Monday.
During the winter and spring its “That’s my guy!” a few times a week thanks to Direct TV and its lack of coverage (thank you Direct TV).
But starting this past Sunday, oh my goodness, “That’s my guy!” is every. single. day. With no relief until the fall. No reprieve. No breath.
I do not like this season one bit.
I have a lot of guys it seems but not a one of them does me any good.