Don’t Tell Kimra She Has Bad Breath

Back to bad breath. MY bad breath. The first time my husband asked me, during church if I had any mints and I incorrectly assumed that HE needed one, when he was actually letting me know that I needed breath-freshening action, I was insulted. "Don't you want me to tell you that you have bad breath BEFORE you go breathing dragon breath on everyone you know?" He had queried, afterwards, as we rode home from church in a chilly tiff.

"Well, YES, I want to know!" I replied.

"So, how am I supposed to tell you?" He queried. "You feel quite free to tell me that my breath is horrible; that my hair needs cutting, that my clothes don't match, but if I even say one thing to you- in the nicest way possible- you get angry at me. Maybe next time," he threatened, "that your breath is awful, I will not tell you."

I thought about that for a moment. "No. You HAVE to tell me. EVEN if I get mad, which of course I will. Because I don't think that I should have bad breath."

"But the rest of the world can, and does?" My husband asked.

"Exactly." I replied.

Following that day, I went out and bought every breath-freshening agent known to man. My purse was from that day forward fully stocked with mints, gums and gentle breath fresh sprays to ensure that I would never be caught again with the essence of Brussels sprouts emanating from my presence. Before going ANYWHERE, I'd pop one of those mints in my mouth--you know the ones, the CURIOUSLY strong ones which leave your breath arctic fresh?

Except for last Saturday. Last Saturday we had a big planning meeting at our church. I hate planning meetings, and I hate getting out in public on a Saturday morning. It's unnatural to me, except during the soccer season when I can be roused to a state of semi-consciousness to cheer my sons on to athletic victory. Anyway, I wasn't too gung ho about this whole meeting on a Saturday morning, and so I waited to the last moment to get out the door. Which meant that I gobbled a donut, and threw two apples in my purse to be consumed during the meeting. And I left. And yes, I brushed my teeth, but apparently it did not make a difference.

I was trying to concentrate on the subject being discussed (with little success- I am hopeless at siphoning through drivel for the pertinent info), when my hubby poked me. "Do you have a mint?" He whispered.

"Why, do you need one?" I whispered back.

"No, YOU do." He replied. This was, word for word, and I kid you not, the EXACT same conversation we had had all those months ago which prompted me to vow never to be caught with bad breath in public again. Only this time.......

I still got mad. "I HAVEN'T HAD MY APPLES!" I hissed to him, furious.

"What does that have to do with anything?" He replied, befuddled.

"I can't eat a mint until I have my apples- the mint would ruin the taste of the apples!" I whispered back, my face in a furious scowl.

Later, back in the car, the mecca for all discussions of breath, he wondered aloud, "I thought you told me that you absolutely wanted to be told when you had bad breath! Then, when I told you, you were so angry at me!"

I couldn't apologize to him. I was too disgusted at...... my breath, for betraying me again in public. I tried to explain to my hubby that he still needed to tell me, but that he had to know that I was probably going to be mad- but the mad wasn't at him but rather at MYSELF for once again failing to live up to the perfect standards of hygiene that I hope to one day achieve.

"So you DO want to know?" He answered, nervously.

"Yes, absolutely." I replied, knowing that the situation would never present itself again as I fully intended to be responsible for pushing the peppermint market into such an all time high that peppermint growers and peppermint stock buyers everywhere would be rejoicing in the streets. The next time my hubby asked me for a mint, it would be because HE, not ME, needed a little freshening action. This time I mean it.