By all accounts, this day should have sucked.
Doug and I both had the day off, but we’d gotten the day off specifically so we could go to the dentist: I had to get some cavities filled in between my teeth (which I didn’t even know was an area accessible to cavity monsters, let alone dentists), and Doug was beginning his long and expensive teeth-fixing program with a routine cleaning – the first “routine cleaning” he’s had in over a decade.
I sat in the dentist’s chair for a total of two-and-a-half hours. For the last hour of it, the whole left side of my back was spasm-ing; I can’t lie on my back for very long, and I kept trying to adjust my knees in the hopes it would alleviate some of the pain, to no avail. When I came out of the room, Doug asked how I was feeling.
“My back hurts,” I told him.
“Oooooooh-kayyyyyy. But your back didn’t just get worked on with drills and needles and stuff. So how are you feeling?”
“My back hurts,” I repeated. “And I have to pee.”
We went to my mom’s house, since we had a few hours to kill before my therapy appointment, and I did a load of laundry. Only, I forgot to take the clothes out of the washer and put them into the dryer until 20 minutes before I had to leave. So it was that I ended up with a basket of mostly-wet clothes in the back of my car while I was in my appointment.
Therapy went as normal: I’m too smart for my own good, my brain doesn’t let my body talk, I need to tell the “objection bubbles” to shut up, etc.
In the meantime, Doug was riding his bike from my mom’s house to go meet up with his mom, so he could sign off on his taxes. He wasn’t sure whether his mom was going to be at work or at home, and told me he’d text me to let me know where to meet him. This was the text I got:
“At mom’s, going to Jamba Juice in like 5 min, want anything?”
I had just gotten out of my appointment and was already driving, so I sent back, “Chocolate.” (I’ve been stuck on chocolate milkshakes since someone – I think SLC – mentioned having one a few weeks ago.) This began a texted-while-driving argument about whether or not Jamba Juice has a chocolate shake option.
(They do. It’s called a Chocolate Moo’d. Try telling this to Doug, who always gets the Peanut Butter Moo’d which is right next to it on the menu.)
Him: “You want a Peanut Butter Moo’d?”
Me: “Chocolate Moo’d.”
Him: “Yeah, Chocolate Peanut Butter Moo’d.”
Me: “No. Just chocolate.”
Him: “I’m parking. I’ll figure it out.”
Me: “Or nothing, then.”
Him: “Too late, just got it.”
Me: “Chocolate only?”
Him: “Just got back to my mom’s work.”
At this point, I was like two blocks from his mom’s house. (Because he had said he had gone to his mom’s, remember?) So I turned around and went back in the other direction for a few miles until I got to her office. Where I was presented with a Chocolate Peanut Butter Moo’d.
“Did you even ask about just a chocolate one?” I asked him. “Did you even look at the menu?”
He admitted that he hadn’t.
So of course I had to make fun of him, for getting me lost, for refusing to accept my drink order as viable. But I didn’t really get mad. I didn’t want it to ruin our afternoon; I wanted to laugh about it. So I did – we did. This is uncharacteristic for me. I can get grumpy pretty quickly when things don’t go my way.
Once we got home, Doug took my poor clothes down to the laundry room for another shot at the dryer. I relaxed a little and wrote the rent check: we will have more than enough this month, thanks to not having exhausted our year-end bonuses yet, March being a three-check month, our tax returns coming soon, and a lot of help from our parents (in the food and dental categories, mostly). After he’d showered and shaved, Doug came over and gave me a hug.
“Careful,” I told him as he was squeezing my ribs. “I sat in that dentist chair for a long time, and it hurt my back.”
“Do you want me to give you a massage later?” he asked.
We’d already been planning to go out to dinner, and had decided against dressing up and going anywhere fancy; we went to a local diner, because we had a coupon. And we had a great time, eating burgers and drinking non-alcoholic beverages, joking around with the waitress and each other. This is more my style anyway. I do love getting dressed up, but I don’t always like the pressure that comes with it; I’d rather go somewhere where I can sing along with the music, throw a napkin at Doug if he says something cheeky or inappropriate, and leave a tip that nearly equals the total bill (because the total bill didn’t break my bank already).
We’re home now, and I am full and happy and sleepy. Doug is playing video games, and I’m chatting with a friend about what kind of earrings to wear with the wedding dress I haven’t gotten yet (not even close). I’m looking forward to that massage.