This isn’t the way the game is supposed to be played.
In the past two days, I’ve fallen on rocks (and gravel) and gave myself a nasty paper cut (opening the mail this morning).
I’m staying away from all forms of scissors just in case.
It seems prudent, don’t you agree?
IRL convo with faraway tugboat man
Me: “You failed me.”
Him: “Hmm? What? How?”
Me: “Because you didn’t immediately psychically sense that I was injured and call to see if I was OK.”
Him: “What did you do THIS time?”
(He’s referring to my broken wrist, falling off the kitchen counter, broken ankle, OTHER broken ankle, and an assortment of other bloody injuries sustained on a regular basis.)
Me: “I was walking around the lagoon, the long way, (about a four-mile round trip) and you know where there’s no sidewalk on that one side, and only rocks and gravel?”
“Well, I was walking pretty fast, must have hit an unstable rock, and before I could catch myself, I fell HARD.”
Him: “Do you need to fill out a currents report?” (Insider mariner intel about what goes on with an accident on a tug.)
I refrained from chuckling at his lame joke, and listed my fresh injuries:
1. Sprained wrist and knee. (Same wrist broken a couple years ago.)
2. Bloody wrist, both knees, hand.
3. Torn skin and major six-inch gash/wound underside of left arm. Dripping blood, Very painful.
Him: “You poor dear! How did you get home? Why didn’t you call me immediately? Do you need stitches?”
Me: “First of all, I walked home, holding a tissue to stop the blood, but that’s not the point.”
“I didn’t call you, because I was telepathically sending you messages to call ME, and I waited here for two hours hoping you’d do the right thing, and you didn’t.”
“I guess we’re not as in sync with each other as I thought. You are not my soul mate any more, I’m sad to say.”
Him: “Oh, honey. I’m sorry I failed you.”
Me: *sniff* “It’s OK, but next time, try to do better.”
Him: ” All right. I will try. Now go have a glass of wine.”
THIS is how you do it, men. Sympathy and wine. That’s all we need.