Little Luxuries

I sat, today, naked in my hot tub, reading a book. And ate a Godiva double-chocolate raspberry truffle. In silence. For nearly an hour.

If I ever needed evidence that I am blessed beyond my wildest earnings, today was it. And frankly, I did need some evidence, because yesterday sucked.

I fell when I was jogging. "Fell" is really an understatement.

I am bound and determined - along with about 95% of the American population during the month of January - to get back into shape. I miss shape. Shape was nice. I have a shape now, but it's rather disconcerting. So I walk. And, when I am sufficiently warmed up, jog.

I had finished 2 miles of a 3 miles loop. I had passed my husband on his return from the airport after a 3-day business trip to Florida, during which it was rainy and cold in Florida and unseasonably warm here (meaning 50 degrees in both places) and, in his absence, his portable garage had blown over in a windstorm and taken out his big blue baby of a car, the Subaru WRX STi.

Chris had taken my kids; the house was empty. I had sent my husband a seductive email, hoping to whet his appetite and distract him from the twisted metal and canvas in the back yard (those of you who know him will realize how completely stupid this plan was from the word go).

So I had one mile left, after which I would return home to find my husband suitably enticed by my email promises of a carnal frolic amidst newly-purchased attire from Fredericks of Hollywood.

And then I fell. I fell because some asshole had left a coil of wire on the side of the road and I hadn't seen it and I was coming downhill with an admirable head of steam when suddenly BAM! it clotheslined my ankles. My whole body smashed into the ground and I slid six feet before rolling (fortunately *away* from the road) to a halt clutching my wounded knee.

I live and jog in a small town. I am constantly being honked at by forces usually friendly but largely unseen behind the glare of windshields all along my route. I am occasionally honked and whistled and leered at by men who are overly friendly, and I am once in a rare while honked at by elderly and cautious drivers who find joggers of any sort reckless and distasteful.

No one stopped to help me.

I tried to stand. I crumpled back onto the ground. I eventually stood again, and limped around in circles, and cursed the loop of wire and marvelled at the length of sod I had torn up with my knees and prayed someone would offer me a ride home.

No one did.

But wait! I carry my cell phone! My husband was home! He would take pity upon me and come and get me and ferry me home in his pickup truck. (Those of you who know him will realize how completely stupid this plan was from the word go.)

My husband was home, alright, assessing the damage to his car and disassembling the garage and calling the insurance company and scheduling estimates and not answering the phone.

I limped home. I was furious. He was furious. Fredericks of Hollywood does not sell compression bandages.

The children are not sympathetic to the wounded knee. I have been up three nights in a row explaining the implausibility of various nightmares. My knee looks like a purple grapefruit, and my left hip throbs, but not in a Fredericks of Hollywod sort of way.

My whole body hurts.

I had to get up at 6:50 this morning to take the kids to swimming lessons. My husband would have, but he had a hot date with a tubing company and plans for a roll cage.

But right when I was drawing comparisons between myself and Job, there was the hot tub, magically making my body not ache anywhere. And the kids quietly watched TV and did not bicker. And I got to read a book. And eat a truffle. Which my husband had bought for me.