Mr. Wonderful, my husband of forty years, is wonderful, mostly. He is my househusband, does most of the food shopping and cooking, and dusts if I ask ‘pretty please’. I’m loving it. He seems content, and has heightened status among women when they learn all he does. Although, the guys turn up the TV volume when he becomes the topic of conversation.
I make a point of showing my appreciation. Today I sat on his lap, gave him a nice kiss. Enjoying the attention he playfully embraces me, arms behind my back. I slipped my arms under his shoulders and interconnected my fingers around his back nervous we might fall. Like Fabio on the cover of a romantic novel, he curves my back across his knee, and we topple.
“Are you okay?”
“I can’t tell. Are you okay?”
“You’re lying on my arm, I can’t move.”
“You’re lying on my chest; do you think I can move?”
We’ve fallen and we can’t get up.
“Claudia, you’re killing my arm, you have to move.”
Granted his arm is underneath me, taking the bulk of the fall; his 200 lbs pressing my 135 lbs into the floor. But I am flattened like a pancake too and cannot move.
So I quip, “Let me see if I can bench press your 200 lbs. with my nose.”
“You’re killing my wrist, move!” He says, with a loud little boy in pain tone, to his voice.
Wondering if I am able to take in air, I say, sweetly, “Don’t panic, yet. Where’s your other arm?”
“What other arm?”
“The other arm attached to your body. I’m lying on your right arm, where is your left?”
He pauses at length to consider the possibility, and responds “You mean this one,” raising his left arm above his head.
Relieved, I suggest he use it to lift himself, allowing me to push up so he can retrieve his right arm.
He does. I move and guess what, we have fallen, but we can get up.