This morning the roads and sidewalks were covered in something resembling a Slushee. I caved to the wimply old lady inside me and splurged for the ten dollar door-to-door cab ride to work. It was all I could stand to do to leave the house in the first place. I dashed in to the Starbucks, grabbed the venti, and hit the desk for a hectic eight hours.
At five, the fiance’ called from the house. (First thought? Great. He skipped work.) Nope. Instead, while he was hurrying up the hill to work, he slipped off the curb on a slick patch and fell hard on his shoulder. After calling work to say he’d be late, he wrapped it up in an ACE bandage sling, called a ride, and headed back to work. To cook one-armed. Luckily, after seeing how beat up he was, they sent him home (so he could recover and be back tomorrow).
My plans for the night? I’m off to pick up a pack of smokes and then he’ll be home with Wendy’s and a throbbing bod. Tomorrow, we pray for warmer weather and I hit the keys to finish the manuscript. In the meantime, I’ll be queen of the sweatpants. Friday night after thirty just isn’t what it used to be. But sometimes, it’s better.