I'm sitting with my Methodist mother-in-law in the living room. We are replaying old memories like worn out records. There is a ballgame playing in the background. Braves are winning.
She sits in her wheelchair, nursing a nightly glass of Metamucil. I am sitting in a fold-up rollator walker, drinking one of her Ensure meal replacements. Chocolate.
The white-haired woman gets a sly look on her face and says, “Do you remember that one time…?”
There is mischief in her voice. And I already know where she’s going with this. Even so, I prod. “What ’one time?’”
“Oh, the time I came over to your house, unannounced, several years ago…?”
I knew we were going here.
“You mean the time you saw me naked?”
She laughs and sips her fiber supplement. “That would be the instance of which I speak.”
I might as well tell you the story now that we’ve brought it up. And I'm sorry if this is offensive because I consider myself a sincere gentleman. I mean it. I open doors for ladies, watch my language, and
I don’t slouch.
But the truth is—and I can hardly say it—my mother-in-law has indeed seen me wearing nothing but the Joy of the Lord. And I mean the full biscuit.
Don't make me repeat myself.
It happened years ago. And the violation occurred right in my own house. I'm forever traumatized. In fact, just writing about this causes unpleasant feelings to start swimming inside me, some of which date back to middle-school gym showers.
I can't really explain how it happened. All I know is that one moment I'm waltzing across my empty house after a shower, enjoying the invigorating springtime air, then (WAM!) a peeping Thomasina is standing in my kitchen.
“Mother Mary!” I squealed—but in a masculine tone. “How'd you get in here?”
“I have a key, ding-a-ling.”
"Please don't use that word."
She handed me a…