Month Thirteen

Dear Husband,
What can I say about this month? I’m sure there were a number of things that happened or that I might consider noteworthy a number of years from now but right this instant, for the life of me, I cannot remember them. We spend our weeks at work and our weekends trying to come up with things to do that will fill them and then the process just repeats itself. We pass our spare time by shopping for antiques we’ll never afford, wandering around markets, occasionally watching the idiot box and generally trying not to spend more than we earn. Which doesn’t always work.
We had the good fortune recently to be invited to a new season gentlemen’s fashion launch that was the brainchild of one of our friends. You had been roped in to being a roving model beforehand so you were going to responsible for wandering around, looking pretty handsome and showing off the outfit that was selected for you. Which you did admirably, except for those few minutes when you appeared to hide during the speeches. All the models were there but one…Anyway, we knew there would be a lot of food and drink going around, especially as our friend had partnered with Makers Mark bourbon so we were both looking forward to the night. It was a great way to break up the working week and an excuse for me to frock up in a little black dress and big black high heels. Not that you should ever need an excuse for that…
I got there about 6ish and happily picked myself up a cocktail but I think you had gotten a head start on the night as you were also helping to prepare in the late afternoon. Which was fine for the most part as you’re not exactly bad at holding your liquor but somehow though, particularly when you get around a few of these guys, you do not necessarily shall we say “pace” yourself to the best of your ability. You schmooze, you laugh, you drink, you have vehement conversations about the craptastic fashions of the pantless poptart Lady Gaga and the suitability of the white suit for one whose main occupation is not that of pimp and then in the space of about five minutes, the mood swings from go to whoa and you want to leave. Now. Or five minutes ago really when everything was still great but you’ll settle for as fast as politely possible with the emphasis on now.
So we made our goodbyes and since you were apparently a little beyond getting changed at that point, I faithfully promised that I was sober enough to ensure the clothes that we were absconding with would be cared for (and returned) once they got out the door and then we left. I was all for catching the train home because I already had a ticket and a single for you would be just a couple of bucks but you nixed that as soon as we were on the street and we had to catch a cab. Fortunately you were fine to walk into the unit under your own steam but I knew I would only have about a 30 second window to get the clothes off you before you passed out on the closest soft surface you could find. Which you did and fortunately it was the bed. Then the next day, you called in sick. I went to work with a hangover but you called in sick, which as a temp, meant no pay. You did think you might have a touch of food poisoning as you couldn’t keep anything in your stomach, so I guess work wasn’t really an option at that point, but it still turned into an expensive night!
With some of the rest of the month however, I managed to balance the distribution of pain out perhaps and suffered from my own ailment. I ended up getting the mother of all carpet burns on one of my knees. Not that I’ve have much experience with carpet burn before or been around those who have but I assume this one was pretty bad cause it still has not healed and it hurt like a bastard initially. And by initially I mean the first couple of weeks. I was limping around everywhere feeling sorry for myself and aggravating your eardrums every time you accidentally bumped my knee in bed or when I tried to manoeuvre myself into the car but couldn’t quite keep my leg straight enough. There were several occasions where I accidentally made myself bleed and would utter one of the most unladylike sounds in my repertoire. You were quite unsympathetic about that but I guess it might have seemed a bit precious. It hurt though. And to add insult to injury, I wasn’t doing anything exciting when I got the carpet burn! It was totally self-inflicted because I wasn’t paying enough attention. I tripped over my own damned pyjama pants. Although, just so as you know, I am blaming a small part of my predicament on you because the only reason I got out of bed and was able to trip over is because you wanted to show me something on the completely portable laptop.
Painfully Yours,
Your Loving Wife
* Photo taken at our friend’s season launch.
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