After dinner tonight, my wife was in the kitchen tidying up while I cleaned up the kid and dining room table.
She yells my full name (uh oh) and says “WHAT IS THAT?!”
I go to the kitchen and see her pointing into my office, which is in the breakfast nook. I say, “What?”
Sigh… I was “hiding” my modest yoyo collection in plain sight in a soft case that holds a dozen throws. “Uh, my yoyo case.”
“When did you get that?!” And before I could reply she tears into my office, grabs the bag, sets it on my desk, and opens it. All she exclaims is my name. Loudly.
Well, she was flabbergasted, failing to comprehend why I would need multiple yoyos let alone enough to need a case for them. I tried to explain, but she just doesn’t get it. She wasn’t mad. Just shocked that I had accumulated so many without her knowing. Again, I wasn’t hiding anything. I just haven’t making a big deal of things as they arrived in the mail. She flew to the mantle in the living room, where I usually have a couple sitting as my current throws, to make for a complete count. “13 YOYOs!”
“Yeah…” I admitted. “Most were really good deals.” Which is true. “And so was the case.” Also true.
“You’re ridiculous. Why do you need so many yoyos?”
“They’re all unique. They’re all different shapes, weights, sizes, and look different.”
“No, they’re not. They’re just yoyos. You’re an obsessed kid.”
If only she knew about the handful of others in a box just a few feet away. The bearings I just got in the mail earlier today. The lifetime supply of ZipLine strings in another box. The two yoyos on their way to me as we spoke. And the one I keep in my office at work.
She shook her head and went back to what she was doing. It could have been worse.