Getting ready to go out is a very quick 10 minute process in our house. It usually goes along the lines of: complain about the fact we have plans, get off the couch, put on shoes, brush hair, search for phone, avoid eye contact with the dogs, leave.
But for some reason that evening everything was taking twice as long as it should have and we officially running late for the first time ever. I was ready first, so I hopped in the car and reversed out of the garage, hoping that this would speed things along with the Mrs.
She came out of the house looking distressed and asked through the car window “does my hair look ok?” It looked exactly the same as it always does, but instead of saying this I decided to go with “Well, it can’t get any worse”.
NOT WHAT I MEANT.
Those words did turn out to be pretty prophetic as while her hair couldn’t apparently get any worse, it turns out that the mood for the rest of the evening most definitely could.
A few months later Mrs got her own back. I looked in the rearview mirror as we were reversing out of the garage and asked “does my hair look ok?” The reply? “Well, it’s too late now”.