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Ah, Much Better
Aug. 30th, 2008 11:01 amI have the bestest husband in the world forever and ever.
Not only does he put up with my mood swings and temper tantrums when things don't go my way, he rides them out patiently, looks at the root cause, and, realizing that if I do not get enough outside-the-house-moving-around time I turn into a hideous monster, finds the only club within two miles of our house that has live music and free parking, and convinces me against my own better judgment to go with him. And he doesn't even dance himself, usually.
They were playing disco/funk. I hate disco/funk. The dance floor was so crowded that I could barely move. It was loud and hot and I had a goddamn blast. I staked my claim on one square foot of the dance floor, and I swiveled and twisted and danced until my hair was tangled in knots and I was sweating and laughing and actually breathing instead of just passing time and my skin didn't feel like a prison anymore.
I have no idea whether this is an indication of desperation akin to the alcoholic who sinks to drinking nail polish remover when nothing else is available, or of a deep-seated ability to make lemonade out of life's lemons, or just a suggestion that the local jazz club's disco/funk cover band is really that awesome. I'm not sure that I care, either. All I know is that my husband makes my life better in more ways than I can count.
And now he's making me breakfast. I really don't deserve this....
Not only does he put up with my mood swings and temper tantrums when things don't go my way, he rides them out patiently, looks at the root cause, and, realizing that if I do not get enough outside-the-house-moving-around time I turn into a hideous monster, finds the only club within two miles of our house that has live music and free parking, and convinces me against my own better judgment to go with him. And he doesn't even dance himself, usually.
They were playing disco/funk. I hate disco/funk. The dance floor was so crowded that I could barely move. It was loud and hot and I had a goddamn blast. I staked my claim on one square foot of the dance floor, and I swiveled and twisted and danced until my hair was tangled in knots and I was sweating and laughing and actually breathing instead of just passing time and my skin didn't feel like a prison anymore.
I have no idea whether this is an indication of desperation akin to the alcoholic who sinks to drinking nail polish remover when nothing else is available, or of a deep-seated ability to make lemonade out of life's lemons, or just a suggestion that the local jazz club's disco/funk cover band is really that awesome. I'm not sure that I care, either. All I know is that my husband makes my life better in more ways than I can count.
And now he's making me breakfast. I really don't deserve this....
