"Hey," he said, predictably from the other end.
"Hey," I replied.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Therapy," I answered. Through the distance between us, I sensed his nervousness. He was silent, unsure how to respond to his wife, who'd just confessed to a mid-day, self-induced, therapy session. Was this a sensitivity test? A trap? A breakdown? A threat?
"What?" he asked, trying to buy more time to secure the right response.
"Therapy," I repeated. Then, because I'm a nice wife who never (by never, I mean, always) does secret, hypothetical, manipulative, emotional tests on her husband, I let him off the hook with a simple explanation.
The past week has not been some of my favorite. (Although, Halloween definitely was.) One sore ankle. An unwelcoming smell of crap on my lawn. Spending $300 on running shoes. And $100 on a pair of super FLAT shoes. One sore ankle. The sound of a BB gun repeatedly going off in my house. One sore ankle. A dog puking like a sorority girl. Chapped lips. A treadmill that calls my name in the night. A broken ice maker. Not enough laundry. And one very, sore ankle.
So Peanut at school, a dog that was shut in the bathroom and work that could wait an hour or two. I had alone time. Put my phone on silent. Time alone with my grump/slumpy self.
I cranked up Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark (don‘t judge), unloaded my fridge onto my counter, tied up my apron and got to work. With all the angst of my unsettled soul, I mashed bananas, scooped cocoa, marinated chicken breasts, squeezed lemons, beat eggs, mixed in cinnamon, roasted peppers, sprinkled salt, sliced sweet potatoes, whipped butter and zested lemons. I made a mess. I teared up [without any onions present]. And spilled. And grated my finger. And broke a sweat.
Sigh.
That felt good. Not 20 miles good. But. Really good.
I bought yet another pair of running shoes. The dog stopped puking. I bought some chapstick. My ice maker has been resurrected in the nick of [winter] time. My lawn is starting to sprout little green blades in among all the smelly crap. I’m pretty sure my grumpy ankle actually smiled a little at me a little after my swim. And my husband, still scared for his life, offered to rub my ankle [until it feels better].
What a guy.
He definitely passed the "What-To-Do-When-You're-Wife-Has-A-Mental-Breakdown-From-A-Bung-Ankle" test.
Maybe next week when he calls, and asks what I'm up to, I'll test him again with the old "I'm having a breakdown because my NordicTrack sucks and I need a new Woodway Treadmill..."
