MY HUSBAND HAS A CRISIS

My husband is one of the most easygoing, untroubled men in the universe. Few things worry him or upset him or cause him to experience a moment’s anxiety. In fact, if you were to x-ray his brain to see what he is thinking about at any given moment, you would find the equivalent of an empty speech bubble. This is something I have always envied, since a scan of my brain would reveal a flock of panic-stricken loony birds.

Recently, though, something happened that shook him to his core. The crisis occurred just a couple weeks ago, triggered by the weekly Hearts game that he and his card buddies had just started up again after a year of social distancing. My husband left the house happily, eager to return to a game that he had played every Wednesday evening for the last thirty-some years. 

When he returned home a few hours later, though, I could tell something was wrong. He looked shaken, and he collapsed in a chair across from me, eyes unfocused.

Alarmed, I paused Firefly Lane, despite the fact that Tully was in the middle of proposing to Max.

“You okay, Hon?” 

He didn’t answer. 

“Ohmigod. Did someone—” (This is the kind of question that springs to mind when a card game has been going on for thirty-some years.) 

“No. No.” 

“Then what?“ 

He looked at me. “They want to change the time of the game.” 

“That’s it?”

"Well..."

“But you’ve done that a couple times before. First, because Steve kept falling asleep with his eyes open. And then because Rob started getting cranky after 9:30 if he hadn’t had a bowel movement that day. And later, because after a certain number of hands, Frank wasn’t able to track whether he was supposed to be passing left, right, or across and you were afraid you might have to kill him.”

“This is different.” 

“How?” 

“They want to start playing in the afternoon.” 

“Oh.” 

The unspoken hovered between us. Because it is a true fact that men who play cards in the afternoon are retired, between jobs, or… 

My husband looked at me sadly. “I’m officially old, Hon.” 

I leaped forward and grabbed his shoulders. “Now you listen to me. First of all, you are NOT old. You’re lots younger than the other Hearts guys. And second of all, what’s the big deal? Why shouldn’t you play in the afternoon? You’ve cut down your office hours, and if you play in the afternoon, you'll have more time at night to start chipping away at the twenty-some Walking Dead episodes that are still backed up on the DVR."

He nodded slowly. "I guess."

"Plus, I’ll bet some of the other Hearts guys are ROMEOs, which you definitely are not.” 

“Romeos?” 

“Retired Old Men Eating Out. The ones who meet every morning at Continental or some other deli for breakfast. My mom says some of her friends like to play mah-jongg at a nearby table just so they can eavesdrop and find out if one of the guys has suddenly become available.” 

My husband took a breath. “So I shouldn’t worry?” 

“No, you should not. You are not old. And you will not be old until you stop bouncing up and down on the couch and giggling every time you see a commercial for the new Loki series on Disney Plus.” 

He kissed me, relieved. And the next Wednesday, he walked out the door, head held high, to play cards at 2:00 in the afternoon. 

He returned about 30 minutes later. 

“What happened?” I asked.  

He closed his eyes. “Two of the guys forgot we were switching to afternoons. We had to cancel the game."

I tried to figure out how to put a positive spin on all this. But then I shrugged. 

“Sorry, hon. I got nothing.” 

And in case you’re wondering, yes, this is a true story. So if you know anyone who wants to start up a new Hearts game, or needs an extra player or an occasional replacement, PLEASE have them contact my husband as soon as possible. 

As long as it's a game where everyone can stay up past 9.

BONNIE AFTER SURGERY

As pretty much anyone who knows me, reads this blog, or has recently talked to my mother is aware, I had spinal fusion surgery a few weeks ago. First, I want to thank all of you for your good wishes, messages of love and support, and emergency shipments of chocolate. There could be no better medicine, and they all meant the world to me. 

Anyhow, I’m happy to report I’m healing quite nicely. And before I get back to my normal posts, I wanted to share a few fusion-related observations I’ve made over the past few weeks. 

Pain Killers Make Me Funny. Apparently, I am unintentionally hilarious when on strong drugs. The following is a conversation that I actually recall having. 
 

Friend: Has your husband been taking good care of you? 

Me: He has! Well, he was. But then they took him away. 

 

Friend: Who? 

 

Me: The people. 

Friend: What people? 

Me: The people who are painting him gold. They said they’ll have him back soon. 

I am happy to report that my husband is indeed back and does not appear to have been gilded. And then there was the conversation I had with my hairdresser, whom my husband took me to see when my head began resembling Medusa’s. 

Me: Why did you only cut half my hair? 

Stylist: I didn’t. I cut all of it. 

Me: No, you only cut the right side. 

Stylist: I cut both sides. 

Me: Are you sure? I didn’t see you do it. 

Stylist: That’s because you were asleep. 

Me (suddenly noticing that my chin is damp): Was I also drooling? 

Stylist: I’m afraid so. 

Physical Therapy Can Be Depressing. I don’t mean the actual therapy. That can be kind of exhilarating and lead to feelings of tremendous achievement, like when I first got up from a couch without falling over. I’m talking about the illustrations in the PT booklet that Maggie, my perky blond therapist, gave me. Apparently, if you are at the age when you’re having certain types of surgeries, this is what the authors and illustrators assume you look like. 

Note the sleek hairstyles on both the man and the woman, which nicely frame the wattles on their necks. And of course, the belted polo shirt and oversized shorts on the man are sexy as hell, accentuating his toned chicken legs. (I’m trying to ignore the mystery bulge in his abdomen, although, except for the placement, it implies he’s happy to see the woman to his left). As for the woman’s clothing, I now feel compelled to run over to Marshalls and purchase a loose t-shirt and baggy capris. Although, I admit, I think I already have several of each.

I Still Feel Guilty Parking in Handicapped Parking Spots. I now have an official temporary parking placard that lets me park in all those close-up spaces at Jewel or Portillos. At first, it was exciting, like having a superpower. But thanks to perky Maggie, I’m actually starting to walk pretty well, which means I can traverse the short distance from my car to the door in less than twenty minutes and without a cane. 

Unfortunately, this means that people immediately start giving me the why-are-you-parking-in-a-handicap-spot-you-selfish-jerk stink eye. So I have taken to getting out of my car while hunched over, moaning slightly, and holding my lower back. 

Walkers Make Good Race Cars! For major excursions, I was given a four-wheeled walker with a pull-down seat. It’s fire-engine red, and if you sit in it and push backwards real hard with your legs, you can zoom around the main floor of the Shedd Aquarium like Mario Andretti, something I discovered this past Mother’s Day. It’s even more fun when you accidentally run into people and they feel obligated to apologize to you! I did, however, embarrass my family, and my grandson refused to acknowledge me. 

So, that’s the update. I’m hoping to be back to normal pretty soon, so perhaps I’ll see you when I’m back walking my dog in the prairie or pretending to exercise. I’ll be the one in the baggy capris.