Sometimes, I get a reminder of just how well Vicky and I fit together – and sometimes that reminder isn’t necessarily necessary.
Take our Christmas, for instance. (One is tempted to say “Please” at this point, though I wouldn’t trade it for anything.)
Two days before Christmas, Vicky took a tumble in a Starbucks and sprained her ankle pretty badly. We spent pretty much the entire day in an (misnomer alert!) Urgent Care Center, where they determined that she didn’t break any bones. You could have fooled us with all the swelling, but we were glad she was still in one piece.
They gave her some crutches and little else and sent us on our way. And I spent Christmas Eve taking care of Vicky.
… well, I spent most of Christmas Eve taking care of Vicky. I spent the rest of Christmas Eve becoming deathly ill.
The worst part about this is I know it was my fault. I’m a pretty fair cook – have never killed anyone – but I know I got sick from either:
- My fried egg sandwich
- My coffee
- Or the dinner I made…
One way or the other, I was sick on the night before Christmas, choking back rivers of Christmas Spirit in the form of vomit.
The next day, Christmas morning, we had to drive out to see Vicky’s family. It’s about a 90 minute drive and Vicky’s ankle wouldn’t let her drive. More importantly, I wouldn’t let her drive. I was supposed to be taking care of her, don’t forget. So, I offered to drive, not realizing what the constant motion of the car would do to my nausea… it would turn it into HULK NAUSEA! (Don’t make me vomit. You wouldn’t like it when I vomit.)
With Vicky’s family on Christmas morning, my wife limped around and I laid perfectly still.
Oh yes, we were quite the pair. But, you know what they say: “In sickness and in health”…