In actuality, it may or may not be the same snowboard he bought that year. He has a habit of buying good quality and taking good care of it long term (he still had his high-school water ski when I met him), but he also has a secondary habit of making purchases behind my back....so it's a toss up.
He even managed to make good on a promise to Esten this year to get him on the mountain once:
|I am tearing this bunny hill a new one.|
One thing that this wildy-mild, or just late and off-schedule season has seemed to do to my mate's otherwise very matrimonially-minded brain is the blatant disregard for a rule put in place at the beginning of every snowboard (previously skiing, you'll remember, was awesome, now for losers) season. He was to call or text when he was on his way home so I knew, no matter if he was alone or with a buddy that he was not in a Sonny Bono or Natasha Richardson-type situation....or a lesser injurious state of brokenness.
Am I overreacting? I don't really think so. For the most part I consider myself fairly lax with regard to his sports participation. Here, for example, is a very handsome photo of him, and a helicopter. In Canada. Where he may have exaggerated regarding his actual skills in order that they would take him to a more challenging area to board (so he would get his money's worth from the trip). On Valentine's Day. Which, if I were NOT fairly lax would have already been another blog post.
|Buying a new suit totally convinced them - he looks legit.|
That said, this season has been a stinker for our communication. I fret all day until I hear from him, which usually doesn't happen until I'm texting him long after he's home and I'm still at work. All that does is fuel my fury at him for making me worry for no reason. He maintains that I should just quit fussing about him, but this week I was in a particularly big huff when I texted him at 4:09:
Are you home yet?
And again at 5:34 when I'd gotten no response:
Hello? Are you still alive? Broken?
Immediately he responded then:
I was livid. As I pulled into the driveway the empty garbage can waved at me with its lid in the wind. Annoyed, I parked the car, flung my purse over my shoulder and schlepped back out to the curb to wheel it back to its place next to the garage. As I grabbed the handle and turned toward the house, I almost instantly found myself on the ground and in excruciating pain, rocks from the asphalt tearing into the skin on the top of my foot. I had managed to twist my ankle on flat ground in flat shoes doing basically nothing and now I was bruising up and bleeding. Shoving the garbage can in place, I limped into the house, gingerly stepping on my wounded limb. I felt like I was about to black out.
Jason took one sideways look at me. "What the Hell happened to you?"
"WHERE? Doing WHAT?"
"In the driveway. Bringing in the garbage can."
"Jesus Christ. And you're worried about ME? You need to worry about yourself and focus on getting from point A to point B just walking."
"Shut up. I know."
And he's right. There was the time, in Jamaica, that our group had finished the zip line course without a single safety incident and while walking back to the base camp I, for no apparent reason, just fell. I didn't trip over anything. I just fell. And the guides made a really big deal about it, and scooped me up off the ground while Jason and our friends laughed at me. And there was the time, on Mother's Day, that I was stepping over the baby gate, and my toe caught and I tried to catch myself from falling and ended up with 3 screws in my elbow. If anyone in this two-hearts-beating-as-one-relationship is a klutz, it's definitely me.
But to be fair, if he ever asked me to text him while I'm on my way home from somewhere, I totally would. Come to think of it, next time I hit the ground, I'm going to stay right where I land at least until he sends me a text or calls me, even if it's just to say:
What's for dinner?