Mine happens to be the fact that there is a sea of bitten off fingernails in the passenger side floorboard of his car so deep that every time I get in I feel like I need a snorkel.
My worst fear came to life last week when I traded cars with him to go to a meeting. He was going to take Ellie with him to dinner and because my car has all of the baby paraphernalia it was just easier to trade.
After the meeting I had a nice follow-up conversation with one of the panelists and I offered to give her a ride to her car because I had lucked out and gotten a spot right outside the entrance. The moment the offer escaped my lips I realized what a tragic mistake I had just made.
Apparently the thought of being gang raped in downtown St. Louis outweighed my telepathic suggestion for her to decline because before I knew it she was ankle deep in the nail pool.
Before she even stepped into the car I gave the disclaimer that this is my husband's car and that it is in no way a reflection on me or my beliefs in personal hygiene. She didn't seem too bothered, but I'm sure tomorrow morning once she finds a pile of toenails under her shoe rack she'll have second thoughts.
What is strange about this whole situation is that the minute Nick sits down in MY car he calls me a gypsy because I leave my gym card in the cup holder and have a reusable grocery bag in the back seat.
It could be worse, I guess. He could have horrible gas that he finds hilarious to inflict upon me. Wait... let me think of another example. This might take a few minutes. I'll get back to you about how it could be worse.