The Not-Quite-Fetish I Found While Dusting
“Stupid, effing, Southern California dryness.”
I curse the climate through gritted teeth as I dust my husband’s nightstand for the second time in a week. The lack of humidity keeps my hair nice, but covers everything in my house with a thin layer of constant dust. I pass the Swiffer duster over his alarm clock and knock over the President Obama bobble head that is usually kept inside the nightstand drawer. As I pull the drawer open to toss it in, a ziploc bag catches my eye. The pure oddness of it’s contents launch an inner dialogue that I have little control over.
What the hell is this?
It looks to be a plastic bag stuffed with dryer lint.
Yeah, I see that. But what could he possibly be doing with…
It’s clearly some kind of fetish.
What? That’s ridiculous… and very weird.
Is it? We really don’t spend a lot of time with him anymore. Maybe he’s bored. Maybe he’s lonely…
Well, with the preschooler, the toddler, my writing and speaking engagements, his work, his part time teaching, and his pursuit of another degree… I suppose we are in a bit of a disconnect.
He probably washed all your underwear and now keeps the dryer lint so he can feel close to you.
Oh my God.
Maybe he smells it…
Oh my God.
Whoa, what if it’s not even your lint?
Oh my GOD!
I toss the bag back into the drawer of his nightstand and run into the next room to get the toddler who has just awoken crying from his nap. As I change a diaper, I vow to ask him about the lint when he gets home.
I have to.
Maybe our marriage is in crisis…
Or maybe he is on the verge of becoming a psycho creep that lurks around public laundry mats.
Lots of people have fetishes. I’m his wife. He should feel safe enough to share this with me. I can deal. I’ll roll around in dryer lint if it will save my marriage… or his soul… or even if he just thinks it’s sexy.
I pull my toddler into my arms and walk to the kitchen to get a snack.
I can be brave and confront him about this.
I can be open minded and try my best not to sneeze when we open the bag of lint…
As I imagine myself as a linty sex kitten, my son knocks the Cheerios I was holding out of my hand and all over the floor. My imagination runs constant in the background as we both squat and pick them up one by one, singing the “clean up” song…
and my brow furrows in mild disgust…
and my stomach quivers with nervousness…
tinged with excitement.
Turns out dryer lint is really good for starting campfires when you’re out in the woods. My husband is very outdoorsy…
and not a psycho laundry mat lurker. Turns out though, that I’m possibly pretty creepy.