“Happy nonbirthday,” David says to me. It is the day after, and we are just waking up.
“Does this mean I don’t get protein pancakes again?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “It does.”
“I’m dying,” I whisper to him as he films me doing knee-to-elbow planks in my “Ladder Lunacy” workout, turning my head to the side so the camera won’t catch it.
“Lamar Odom is having an affair behind Khloe Kardashian’s back,” I announce as he is bagging our groceries. I am frantically flipping through Star magazine in the moments before we have to pay.
He looks up at me with an expression of practiced disinterest. He really does practice this look for these occasions, and it is the reason I continue to tell him such things.
“We are about to get married,” I say to the cashier. “And if he does anything like that to me….” I put the magazine down and slap the back of my right hand into the palm of my left.
“I was married for 34 years — he’s passed away now — and if I could do one thing over, I wouldn’t have been Little Miss Nice to him at first,” she says conspiratorially. “I would have been more of a bitch. You have to keep them in line right from the get-go or it encourages bad habits.”
She brought a finger to her lips, indicating I should keep quiet about the information she has shared.
I can’t wait to get outside and tell David about the exchange. We laugh all the way to the car, a rebuilt ’68 Corvette that wasn’t the best choice for hauling groceries.
“I want to be in here with you,” he says, as he curls up at the head of the bed, computer in his hands. I am folding laundry. He is writing a new deadlift article for T-Nation, and he reads the final version to me. I hear where he has mistakenly placed commas, and edit the article verbally.
“Let’s stay up and talk,” I say to him as soon as the lights go off. I do this every night.
“Noooooo,” he says. “Let’s not. We already talked.” This, too, is tradition.
We go to sleep holding hands. We are partners.
[photo at top by www.cardiganmark.com]