Every so often, events conspire to work out perfectly. Usually, it happens in a Murphy's Law, "ironic" kind of way: rain on your wedding day and all that. Today turned out to be the opposite of that: a perfect example of perfect timing. I had to have minor gum surgery last night. It was a local-anesthetic-only kind of thing, uncomfortable and squick-y, but not serious. I distracted myself by planning cables for my next sweater project. (You know you knit too much when . . . ) Now, this was my third go-round with gum surgery (the others were in my braces-wearing, wisdom-teeth-getting days), so you'd think I'd have learned that oral surgeons are lying liars. When they say, "Oh, yeah, you'll be able to go to work the next day", what they mean is "Prepare to spend the next three days whimpering on the couch, dribbling soup down the front of your pajamas." Oh, and "a little sore" is code for "eating anything more firm than applesauce will be impossible. Just give it up." Fortunately, the weather cooperated with my stunningly miserable mood by being freezing cold, windy, and rainy/snowy. I snuggled on the couch wrapped in blankets, knitting and watching flurries blow by. And dribbling soup down the front of my pajamas.
Oh, also, if you have your own run-in with gum surgery, learn from my fail: don't eat really salty soup. Just don't.
Last year for Christmas, Shiny New Boyfriend gave me a beautiful prezzie, with one condition attached.
I had to agree to marry him.
Well, it was a beautiful ring, and I like him a lot, too, so I agreed. We haven't set a date yet, because we wanted to live together first and get used to each others homicide-inducing quirks without the added pressure of planning a wedding.
He moved in about six months ago, and so far we're murder-free. This is surprising, because apparently, I roll myself up in the covers at night like a burrito, leaving him shivering and resentful, and he puts his dirty dishes in the sink to age properly before he puts them in the dishwasher right next to the sink, instead of putting them in the dishwasher in the first place. In spite of this, we still like each other a real whole lot. We're looking forward to many long years of finding new ways to drive each other crazy.
(The Best Roommate Ever is now renting my parents' basement apartment about 15 minutes away. She's family.)
Why do I persist in thinking, "Man, if I had to stay home sick, I'd get all kinds of knitting time in!"? No. When I am sick I feel far too crappy to do anything other than lie there in a little ball of misery until the illness gives up in boredom and goes to find someone else to torment. I woke up yesterday morning feeling like I'd been beaten all night with a sack of oranges. I asked my sweetie, "Why, WHY did you beat me all night with a sack of oranges?" He said, "Well, you've gotta tenderize 'em somehow." Turns out I was coming down with a nasty little stomach virus that has left me fetal on the couch for almost two days straight. It's been awesome. I'm mostly vertical now, which is new and exciting. All this illness has given me time to ponder the great mysteries of our world. For instance: why do they make thermometers shaped like that? You have to hold them in place with your hand or they squirt violently from your mouth and hit your reflection in the bathroom mirror. They should make some sort of flange or grippy part that you can hold with your teeth so you can do something useful while finding out if you have an actual reason for feeling like death. I complained about this to my sweetie, who helpfully explained, "That's so they fit better in your butt." Um, no. "This is an ORAL thermometer." "That's what you think!" "It's an ORAL THERMOMETER, dammit!" "Oh, no! Have I been using it wrong? I'm so sorry!" Then he collapsed into giggles while I glared and told him, "I don't love you enough to lick your butthole." He's still giggling now. One day my revenge will come. One day . . .