My husband started smelling terrible—I mean, reeked. Concerned, I made him an appointment with a urologist and went along for support. He went into the office, and five minutes later, the doctor emerged, face red and barely holding back laughter.
“You might want to go in and see for yourself,” the doctor chuckled.
Confused, I asked, “Doctor, what’s going on? Why are you laughing?”
Then my husband walked out, looking sheepish. “Honey… I’m not sure how to say this, but… I left a sandwich in my underwear drawer.”
I stared at him. “You what?”
He scratched his neck, blushing. “Remember last week during the game when you asked me to take out the trash? I shoved my sandwich into the drawer for a second and forgot about it.”
The doctor, now openly laughing, added, “Turns out, a rotting sandwich can really affect hygiene.”
Processing this, I exclaimed, “So you’ve been smelling like a compost bin because of a forgotten sandwich?”
He nodded. “I thought it was me, so I agreed to come.”
The doctor chuckled, “At least it’s not a medical issue.”
Torn between laughter and frustration, I sighed. “You’re deep-cleaning that drawer when we get home.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed.
As we left, the receptionist eyed us curiously while we laughed. From then on, whenever I wanted to tease him, I’d ask, “Any sandwiches in your drawers lately?”
It became a running joke—one neither of us will ever forget.
