After 37 years of marriage, Edna had just about enough of Harold’s routine: dinner at five, the news at six, grumbling by seven, and asleep by eight — snoring like a broken lawnmower.
One steamy summer evening, as the old fan rattled in the corner and the ironing board stood proudly in the middle of their bedroom like an unwanted third wheel, Edna sighed, set down her iron, lit a cigarette, and said with a smirk:
“Shall we try a different position tonight?”
Harold’s eyes widened. His hand trembled, not from excitement but from fear — was this it? Was she finally going to ask him to try yoga? His back still hadn’t recovered from the Great Gardening Incident of ’08.
He cleared his throat.
“Uh… sure, Edna. What did you have in mind?”
She leaned back, exhaled dramatically like a Hollywood starlet, and said:
“How about you stand by the ironing board while I sit on the sofa and fart proudly into the cushions like royalty?”
Harold blinked.
“Well… as long as I don’t have to fold the fitted sheets. That’s where I draw the line.”
