My husband is currently reading the reviews on the Def Leppard/Heart concert.
He is looking over my shoulder. “Laaaady. What are you saying about me?”
We are sitting on our couch, which is giant and comfortable and heavenly, and he is using both his computer and the X-Box to draft fantasy football players.
He ate a burger for lunch, and a burger for dinner. I finally was able to procure a Coke Zero for him, after several days of it resting on his wishlist.
I’m fairly certain that these events, in addition to the electrifying game of Bohnanza we played with friends earlier, have been the highlight of his three day weekend.
You see, he sprained his ankle Thursday playing soccer and spent the wee hours of Friday morning in the Emergency Room. Injury was bound to happen one of these many seasons, and finally my husband’s zeal for D-League indoor soccer caught him right in the ankle ligaments.
I would post the charming photograph of him making his way haphazardly down the stairs this morning, half sitting, half crawling, but I value my life.
Ladies know that boys are the biggest babies ever. My husband is a man’s man, and therefore has raged, raged against the dying of the light. He will not go silently. Oh no, he is indeed very vocal. I would not have expected less.
But I sort of am enjoying Jordan’s stagnant state of affairs. As a wise man once coined it, my husband “is immobile”. And even though this in turn makes me the meal-server, the water-bringer, and the cast-wrapper (amongst many other titles in this dire time of need and despair), it’s nice to have my husband be centrally located and available to poke and prod with my constant need for hand-holding and foot-warming. I’m sad he’s in pain, sorry that he’s out of commission, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t liking how accessible he is. It’s been a long several weeks without much me-n-him interaction, and I’m fully enjoying this (in between running up and down the stairs for him).
I love him a lot. And I just got the go ahead to post that picture: