When I take Jon’s shirts in to be cleaned I have to stand there and count out each one in front of the cashier. After what seems like an entire 72 episode season of “CSI: Tulsa,” I count out 24 garments: shirts and pants and a suit he wears to weddings. The teenager behind the counter looks at me like, “Please, God, tell me THIS IS NOT WHAT HAPPENS TO PEOPLE WHO GET MARRIED.”
I can feel her faith in the priesthood waning as I give her my name, Armstrong. And yes, I took my husband’s name because I want to be a subordinate and lick the shoes of The Elders until Jesus makes his Second Coming and saves us from the heathen influence of rap music and feminism, both of which are taking the nuclear family and ROASTING IT ON THE FIRE OF INIQUITY.
When I go to pick up all 24 garments today a kind, elderly lady is working the counter. I tell her I’m there to pick up everything under “ARMSTRONG” and she says, “You sure have lots of shirts.”
I say, “They aren’t mine.”
She says without a hint of judgment, “Honey, they never are.”
I have to stop myself from breaking down and begging her, “Please hold me and tell me they won’t take my farm.”