It’s a Fantasy

If my kids want something they should ask me in about 15 minutes. That is when the muscle relaxer I just popped will kick in. I woke up yesterday with an excruciating pain in my back near my left shoulder blade. So, I did what a hypochondriac should never do, I googled the symptom. In the past 24 hours I was convinced I had a heart attack, lung cancer, gallbladder pain and an ulcer. I spoke to my elementary school BFF, had the ‘we are getting old’ talk and gave her the ‘if something ever happens to me’ speech. It went something like this, “Your job is to be the bouncer at the funeral home and kick out every person I hated.” She would be very busy. I am (probably) calling the doctor tomorrow. In the meantime I will self medicate, but not with Molly. Kids, just say no to raves and drugs named after 80’s movie stars.

My husband has been nursing me back to health distracting the kids and massaging my back with Icy Hot. This is the closest we’ve come to foreplay in 14 years. Now, I have granny panties and smell like a 75-year-old man. Talk about oozing sex appeal. (Call me Ryan Gosling)

My husband even encouraged me to rest this afternoon. By the look of shock on his face I think he expected me to say, “No.” He stuttered, “Um, uh okay.” I went upstairs to lie down and got this text message soon after:


The draft. The I am a grown man pretending to own a football team fantasy draft. There is no trophy. The winner doesn’t get a ring or oversized check. In fact, there is no prize at all. He said, “I will do both,” but meant “I can’t do both and really want to pretend to own a NFL team.” I begrudgingly got up in time for him to pick players for his imaginary team. I will store this moment in my ‘throw it in his face at a later date’ memory bank. It overflowth.

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