I resemble this joke, sighs

As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection: a thick slab of ham on a fresh bun
with crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, Gourmet Mustard.

The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the table in
our backyard, picked it up with both hands, but was stopped by my wife
suddenly at my side. "Here, hold Johnny (our six-week-old son) while I get
my sandwich," she said.

I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was reaching again
for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers.

I love mustard.

I had no napkin.

I licked it off.

It was not mustard.

No man ever put a baby down faster. It was the first and only time I have
sprinted with my tongue protruding out. With a washcloth in each hand, I did
the sort of routine shoeshine boys do; only I did it on my tongue.

Later, after she stopped crying from laughing so hard, my wife said, "Now
you know why they call that fancy mustard 'Poupon.'"