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The following words were approved by my household. 

My life is a fun one. I’ve got awesome children, and my home is full of love and often the smell of the holidays and gingerbread houses because my woman has somehow decided that boiling (and forgetting to turn off the eye until it’s too late—I spend a mint on stainless steel scouring pads) cinnamon in water is the only way to properly achieve that Christmas smell. I say it’s candles, but hey, what are you gonna do, ya know?

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Speaking of what are you gonna do (ya know?), I have been the victim of “borrowed” clothing. This is not a new phenomenon. I’ve heard stories about cavemen struggling to find their loincloths on their way to the hunt, only to see their women parading around in them and drawing the day’s history lessons on the cave walls. I’m pretty sure GEICO did a re-enactment at some point.

I’ve lost socks, sweaters, sweatshirts, T-shirts, drawz, etc. Basically, I’ve lost it all as she SWEARS she hasn’t taken anything, all the while telling me that what’s mine is hers and what’s hers is hers. These are real conversations. Oh, relationships.

But she really leveled up recently. Now, I can’t tell this story without pointing out that, at this point, she FULLY claims that she no longer borrows or takes any of my clothing. Some of that is true, though the reasoning is because I’ve taken to buying shit for her JUST so she won’t take my things. I do not like sharing, ESPECIALLY because she never asks. I’m sure somebody out there knows what I’m talking about. Is there a heart in the house tonight? Stand up.

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Recently, my woman was doing this thing she does on rare occasions when she gathers all of her clothes and places them into a machine with water and then one that dries and then—and this part always puzzles me—folds them and puts them away. It’s her annual tradition in our home now, hence why my clothing must be so desirable. After completing her task, she made an interesting offer. It went a little something like this:

Her: Hey, I was going through my clothes and I found a few shirts that belonged to my father. This one, this blue Polo, in particular, I thought you might like. I thought it might be nice to give you a shirt that belonged to my father. He only wore Polo—like, his whole closet was all Polo. And I thought you might fit this one. I can share a bit of my family and father with you!

Me: [Bewildered.] Nigga, that’s my shirt. I bought it.

Her: What?

Me: That is my shirt. I haven’t seen it in a while and was wondering where it went. Apparently, you have had it the whole time and have gone and created an entire story about the ownership of this shirt that includes your father. [Shakes head aggressively.]

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Her: You know what? I was wondering how he’d fit this ... he definitely wore more of an XL, and this was a large (note: We’ll just ignore the shade built into her comment). [Laughs.] That’s so funny, isn’t it?

Me: You real live created an entire false narrative behind a shirt you clearly took and lost in your mountains of clothing so long that you think it’s an heirloom and then wholly bought into it. Amazing. [Walks out and questions all of my decision-making.]

This is why I hate people borrowing my shit. And by “people” I mean my woman.

Thanks, Alabama.