Husband Wrote the Last Line

Today was Husband's three month checkup. Blood was drawn, vitals were taken, and the verdict was delivered: all is well. Hemoglobin up, platelets up, and all other signs indicate continued good health.

As we were leaving the parking garage, Husband said mysteriously, "And now I can continue the gaseous exchange with the infinite." Thinking I had somehow missed the profound meaning of that statement, I shot him an astute, "What??" Then I laughed because I couldn't help it.

"It's a phrase that keeps going through my head," he explained. "My brain keeps telling me it's terribly clever and I keep telling my brain it's incredibly stupid."

Now, I completely understand having an argument with your brain (though I try not to delve too deeply into the question of who, exactly, is doing the arguing), and I have written before about the strange and disturbing heated discussions one can have with oneself over flawed ideas, logic, and reasoning (including, but not limited to, waking up in the middle of the night just so you can stew and stress over something you know perfectly well you'll take care of the next day; or being plagued by luscious thoughts of eating dirt when you're anemic but knowing it's not a good idea to indulge). So I just laughed and laughed, and he laughed with me. If we are crazy, let us be crazy together. Maybe it's a writer's curse.

We celebrated the good news of his continued health by going to my parents' house and picking up my wheat grass juicer and sundry other items like CDs, books, and the like, which had been hiding under stuff in the garage or the spa/workout room. (It's been two years that we've lived in this house, and I think we'll be done moving very soon. Won't my parents be glad?) I've been wanting my juicer for a while now. If you've never slugged down an ounce of fresh wheat grass juice, you haven't lived. You certainly haven't lived with the intense and repeating wallop of fresh green grass tickling your tongue and punching you in the throat all day long. Take my advice and only drink a half-ounce or less until you get used to it -- if ever you do. It's kind of an acquired taste.

Since I haven't forced Husband to ingest any hippy health remedies like wheat grass juice lately, I don't think he can blame me for his terrible gaseous exchange with the infinite, now can he?