I told Banjo Man I bought them for the lake, because they were on sale here in Rhode Island.
He looked stunned. As in: who would buy pool noodles 3000 miles away from the water?
“Why?” he choked out.
“They were on sale.”
“Uh, we already have pool noodles at the lake,” he reminded me, still staring at the bobbing noodles I held under my arm.
“Not enough,” I assured him. “We need more.”
“Yup.” I waited for the explosion. I kept a straight and cheerful face. I was One with the Pool Noodles.
There was silence. His eyeballs were spinning. Really. Spinning. He stared at me and then took a deep breath.
“Well,” he said, defeated. “Okay.”
And that’s when I totally lost it. I howled. I screamed. I giggled and guffawed and laughed until I cried. The thought of packing six-foot pool noodles into an already full car was the funniest thing I could imagine. But I’d tricked him into thinking that was what I wanted to do.
“Gotcha,” I finally stammered.
Poor Banjo Man. He didn’t know what to think. His wife was insane.
“I bought them for my cowboy boots,” I explained. “You use chunks of these instead of stuffing them with tissue. I saw it on Pinterest.”
He still didn’t know how to react.
Somehow the joke still wasn’t funny.
But I laughed off and on for two days.