I cleaned a portion of our bedroom closet today. Namaste.

Greg jumped on board when he saw me finally saying goodbye to my jelly shoes and decided to unpack the skating bag to make a trade with the swimming bag. Not really understanding the exercise, it wasn’t so much a clean-out as it was a gesture.

He opened a side pocket and noticed something that disturbed him greatly. He motioned for one of the children to call for help. After searching the closet for his hazmat gloves, he was finally able to reach in and gag while pulling out the obscenities. Loosely gripped in his gloved hands were two new-in-the -wrapper tampons and a panty-liner.

He found me immediately to hot-potato what onlookers watching the drama unfold would have thought to be explosives and looked at me in disgust.

Why does he think I need to handle them before being put in the vanity? Am I one of those scanners at Office Depot that weighs the goods before they can leave the store? He looks as though he has no idea where they are stored. I could tell he was on edge, the colour had left his face, scanning for neighbours the horror started to sink in. What if they looked in and saw a tampon? They might assume a woman (who is not pregnant) lives here.

I know I’m not alone when it comes to husbands and feminine products. He would rather fling a dead frog, mangled by Hornsour the cat with his bare hands from our deck than ever know he was in the same room as a package of pons.

I find myself moving them around from room to room, closet to closet to put him at ease. If he never knows where they are, he sleeps a little easier.

I just never thought he’d check the skating bag.