My husband's way of reaching out

My husband has been at boot camp for 10 days.

Ten whole days that feel like they've stretched on forever.

I've cried and struggled with sleep and missed him like crazy, but I've been busy.

That helps. A lot.

And honestly, no one likes a crying high-school teacher. Or a crying fitness instructor, for that matter.

My jobs force me to toughen up and take it.

So I have.

But that didn't stop me from gasping aloud when I found a package on my doorstep yesterday. From Navy Boot Camp. From my husband.

Much like last week's tulip blessing, I ran pell-mell into my house and tore into the box.

And just like last week's gift, what I found hit my nose before it hit my line of vision.

Except this week's surprise wasn't so good.

Before I'd even torn through the package, I smelled them: Dirty socks. Stale male underwear. A stained T-shirt.

Oh, ick.

Sure enough, there they were. In the box, the packaged I'd forgotten I was going to receive: A pile of the only things my husband brought to boot camp with him.

The clothes on his back.

Or, rather, the stinky, smelly clothes on his back.

I stared at them.

They stared back at me, challenging me with an obstinate-looking grease stain displayed prominently on his worn-in jeans.

I didn't know what to say; I didn't know what to do. So...

... I laughed.

Because, literally, my husband had mailed me a pile of stinking laundry.

The very first attempt at communication I received from my beloved sailor was a a pile of clothes that - it has to be said - weren't even folded.

Heck, they weren't even semi-arranged.

They were thrown and smashed into a cardboard box, along with his sneakers, his plane ticket stub, and his pocket Bible.

Apparently, they haven't gone over crisp corners and folding your uniforms up there yet.

So, yes, I was laughing. Hysterically.

Because that box looked and smelled exactly like the five-foot radius around my laundry hamper did when my husband was home.

That box held the source of many an argument, many an eye roll, and many a resigned moment for me, as a woman married to a guy who literally took so many dirty socks off at his computer desk, day after day, that I once found 43 of them shoved under the thing, just waiting for the maid - er - the lady of the house, to rescue them and clean them up.

That box was the essence of his inner, messy being. All shoved into one cubic foot of cardboard.

That box was my husband - my dirty, unorganized, sometimes smelly husband.

That box was him to a tee.

I did shed a few tears in my laughter. I even sniffed his stinky shirt and smiled.

But then, like any wife married to a dirty, unorganized, sometimes smelly man, I bundled up his soiled laundry, chucked it in the washing machine, and shook my head.

Because something tells me that the United States Navy isn't going to rid my man of every bad habit he has.

And something tells me this won't be the last load of crumpled man laundry I'm going to do.

Let's just hope the next load doesn't have to be air-mailed to my doorstep.

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Happy Friday everyone! Hope your weekend is wonderful!