“You’re just happy because you can wear those shoes,” Mr. W grumbled.
“Yes I am. Its been a long time. ” I was rooting around the floor of my closet.
The shoes are a pair of ruby red patent leather waterproof ankle boots I bought on sale at Nordstrom’s. My daughter and I had been after-Christmas mall crawling a few years back and we had squeed loud enough to scare people when we saw them. She’d been sick when she’d outgrown hers.
Mine still fit, but were literally cobwebby. It had been a long time since DC had bad enough weather to give me a reason to wear them.
I dug one of Mr. W’s CNN t-shirts out of the dirty clothes and polished them up. Still beautiful.
“Could you please not use my favorite shirt?” Mr. Wonderful asked me testily.
“I do the laundry, so stop whining or I’ll have to kill you.” My number 1 rule of life is: whining is punishable by death. I really mean it.
I got dressed in a pair of grey slacks, black sweater and my ruby boots. Deciding to care about what I wear has been good for me, even if I have to think before 8am sometimes.
I had asked Mr. W to take me to my CAT scan. This was apparently enough of a behavior departure to scare him.
“There is a two inch sheet of ice on everything and I’d rather you wreck the car,” I told him. “I’m not dying. Dinner and laundry will still happen.” That pissed him off.
“You are such the romantic,” he crabbed at me. “I was more wondering who would annoy the hell out of me every day of my life.”
“I can do that from beyond the grave,” I assured him.
So off we went, being the Bickerson’s. As I expected, the scan showed a blockage in my sinus. No shit, with a side order of duh. I’ve been on antibiotic since mid November with the sinus infection from hell.
I’m confident it’s a cyst or polyp because anything more serious – like cancer – would have been accompanied by feeling even more miserable and noticeable weight loss. I wish. = Um, not cancer, but weight loss.
To Mr. Wonderful’s utter disgust, I had scheduled a complete physical for him. I insisted on accompanying him.
“You,” he told me, “are not the boss of me.”
“We made a deal decades ago, I am the boss of you.”
Historical note: I did not change my name when we got married. Both kids have his last name. I think this is damn nice of me considering I was the one pregnant and birthing. Don’t give me any hooey about the glory of childbirth. I felt like I had shit a cow. Luckily it’s worth it. But for some reason it irritated me that everyone just assumed my children would be named after Mr. W.
We had argued back and forth about our offspring’s last name. I had won the coin toss. Since it mattered so much to him, I conceded that the kids could have his last name if I could have the final say in the really important life decisions. I’m careful to be benevolent. But I was going to his doctor appt despite his objections.
No wonder he didn’t want me to go. His blood pressure was way high and the doctor told him to lose weight. Mr. W confessed to eating “like he was a dumpster:” during the CNN election year/inaugural frenzy. The good news is that I gave him a gym membership for Christmas. He is really enjoying early morning workouts. Which is my idea of hell.
So I prolly have some surgery in my future. Mr. W has me up his bidness more than he’d like. All is well.