A few years ago, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend's Santino Fontana sang the unforgettable lyric: “I gave you a UTI… my love injection caused a urinary tract infection. I’m just that good, and I didn’t even try, try, try.”
Unfortunately for me, my wife did not appreciate the reference when I jokingly suggested our romantic weekend may have contributed to her UTI. In that moment, I instantly became Enemy Número Uno. The evening quickly shifted from quietness to pharmaceutical warfare as she practically had to negotiate with the pharmacy to fill a prescription submitted by a nurse practitioner. Soon after, I found myself driving clear across town to retrieve the medication — a task I enthusiastically accepted, mostly because it temporarily removed me from the danger zone.
When I returned home, my wife was still in pain and absolutely not amused by my existence. I then received a detailed educational seminar on hygiene, hand washing, and why certain areas of the human body should not be treated like interchangeable tourist destinations during intimacy. Recognizing that literally anything I said could escalate into a full-scale War of the Roses, I wisely chose silence and survival.
The irony is that this all followed one of the best weekends we’d had in a long time. We celebrated my 50th birthday at a beautiful hotel, danced around the suite late into the night, made out like teenagers, ordered room service, explored The Domain, and enjoyed far more intimacy than our usual once-a-week married-couple schedule allows. It was romantic, spontaneous, and honestly pretty fantastic.
There was, however, one tiny detail. At one point she asked, “Did you wash your hands?”
I confidently said yes.
Now?
I’m not entirely sure that was true.
