I started to brush my teeth, this morning.
I was replaying a nasty phone call in my mind, not really paying attention. Applied toothpaste to the brush, brought it to my mouth. For some unknown reason, I stopped and looked at it.
I’d pasted my husband’s brush instead of mine.
My husband and I have been married for 11 years, co-habitating for 15.
We’ve been through a lot together.
He’s taken care of me after surgery. I’ve washed his shorts. He watched me give birth. We’ve had sex on non-showering camping trips.
And it’s not like I’m some raving germophobe.
Every time the scientists revise the “5-second Rule”? Adding more and more seconds to the time I have to eat food that’s fallen on the floor? I nearly weep with gratitude.
“Oh come ON!” I exhorted myself. “There’s already paste on it. It’s not like you found it in a dumpster, it’s your husband’s toothbrush!”
I stared at it for a few more seconds.
Then I rinsed the paste away, and put the brush back.
Sometimes, you don’t know where your boundaries are until you get there.