So, last week, TheManTheMyth was working on his motorcycle, prepping it for the April 22 Vikings MC National Hare & Hound desert race and I was interrupting him by blathering about my upcoming 5K race when suddenly, I realized something.
Me: I just realized something, do you know what Sunday is?
TMTM: A Day of Pain.
TMTM: I'm racing a National, it's going to be 100 degrees at the race so it will be a Day of Pain.
Me: No, it's our 23rd wedding anniversary!
TMTM: Same thing.
And we looked at each other and then roared laughter because Romantics we are Not.
Which is one of the reasons our marriage works.
So, flash forward a few days to April 22, aka, "A Day of Pain."
I get out of bed and you may as well call me Uncle Joe because I was a-movin' kind of slow (at the Junction. Petticoat. Junction) due to muscles that had not been used since Hector was a pup. Oh, I was stiff and sore.
I spend my 23rd wedding anniversary doing laundry, paying bills, watching the Stanley Cup playoffs and waiting for my Menfolk to check in and let me know that they had finished their race and were safe and sound.
Or alive at least.
Nine out of 10 times, their method of "checking in" consists of their arrival at home, tumbling out of the truck and announcing, "We're alive."
This time, TMTM actually calls to let me know they were done and heading home.
Yay, I say. How was the race, I ask. And TMTM replies, "I got T-boned by another racer barely 2 miles in so I didn't finish and Thing 1 had his best start ever until he went about a mile and sputtered to a stop because he forgot to turn the gas on like an idiot and he got passed by a bunch of racers."
And I'm all, "Wait. You got T-boned? Are you okay?"
And he says, "Well, I don't think anything is broken but my sternum hurts when I breathe. But I got checked out by the medical team so I'm probably okay."
So they get home and TMTM gets out of the truck verrrrrrrry slowly and he's holding his arm kind of funny and I ask what's wrong and he says it just feels better to hold it like that and I help him hobble into the house.
He's unable to lift his arm to take his shirt off so I have to cut it off. Nice road rash on his hip and shoulder from hitting the ground. I get his shoes and socks off and I look down and ask, "What did you do to your foot?"
And he says, "Nothing, why?" and I say, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because it's swelling up like a sausage and is turning black and blue as we speak."
And he looks down at his foot and says, "Huh. How'd that happen?"
So after a visit to Urgent Care, it has been determined that TheManTheMyth has broken ribs.
He can't lift his arms any further than chest high, he can't lean forward much, he can't lay on his side which means he has to lay on his back when he sleeps which means he snores like a lumberjack and I can't nudge him over on to his side which means I've been sleeping on the couch. Again.
I coaxed Thing 2 into letting me bunk with her and she grudgingly agreed but then she complained that I snore (LIES!) and Gracie Lou got all freaked out because I wasn't in "our" bed and came looking for me and since Thing 2 INSISTS on keeping her bedroom door closed, Gracie Lou scratched frantically at the door and barked until I let her in and then Gracie kept moving around and then found something to chew on (and that Something turned out to be Thing 2's bottom retainer that had been left within reach) and that was when Gracie and I found ourselves unceremoniously booted out of The Cave with my pillow chucked at my back and we were told to find someplace else to sleep.
So I'm back on our Looks Comfy but Sure as Hell Is NOT sofa until TheManTheMyth heals up enough to at least turn on to his side when he sleeps.
Oh, and today, I found out that when you hug someone with broken ribs, they will scream like a girl.
Because Love Hurts.