When I opened the dryer Friday to pull out some laundry, a scorpion fell to the floor. Egads! It looked dead, but when it comes to scorpions, I need to be 100 percent sure. Not having a sledge hammer handy, I grabbed one of Greg’s shoes and smashed it. Yes, very dead.
Where had it come from? The load of laundry had Greg’s tae kwon do uniforms and a blanket of Abe’s. Was it hiding in the clothes the whole time? Did I have a scorpion infestation in my laundry room?
That night, I told Greg about the scorpion.
“Oh, yes,” he said, with not even a touch of surprise. It was as though I had told him that George Washington was the first U.S. president.
A SCORPION IN OUR DRYER. Why wasn’t he shocked? And fearful? And running from the house?
“I got stung Sunday. Or was it Monday?” he said.
“You got stung? Why didn’t you tell me you got stung?” I asked.
“Twice!” he said.
“Twice?” I asked. “What happened?”
Greg said that when he had changed from jeans into a pair of shorts (a pair of shorts he left lying on the floor, of course), he felt something bite or sting his leg. He hit the spot and felt another sting. Eleanor was waiting on him, and I was at work, so he just changed out of those shorts and went on his way. He didn’t even know what had stung him, only that it hurt a lot.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I said.
“Because I didn’t want you to worry,” he said.
Right. Better to have Eleanor and I unknowingly traipse around the house with scorpions. And this forces me to wonder what else Greg might be hiding from me. Rattlesnake in the back yard? Wolf spider in the closet? So good of my husband to prevent me from worrying.