Nine in the afternoon.

What I wore: Dress, Victoria's Secret. Shoes, Target. 

You know those days,

when you get stuck in an immature giggle fit

and you really shouldn't go out in public but you do anyway?

Giggling your way through the grocery store,

your husband abruptly bends over in the aisle 

so you have to run straight into him,

and to get back at him you start loading candies you 

don't need to buy into the cart.

And then in the produce section, your arms are full

of fruit, and you can't pick up one more thing, but your husband has the cart

and he's running away from you, circling the perimeter of 

the section and weaving through displays of apples

and grapefruit so you'll never catch him.

And outside of the store, he jumps onto the back

of the cart and rides it toward the car,

and when he's not looking you jump behind some

pillars and try to "hide" while you're

sneakily making your way toward him.

And on the drive home, you turn the 

radio volume up and shake your hair and flail your

arms and pretend you're playing the drums or the guitar, 

and you play with special gusto

when you come to a stoplight and someone looks over at both of you.

Welcome to Sunday afternoon.