My husband got after me for scratching at the injection-site monstrosities that are my butt cheeks these days. The itching is like nothing I can describe. So irresistible. Not that that is the right word at all.
I told him how impossible it is not to scratch.
He lifted his left arm and flexed his bicep. Solidarity.
It’s a brand new thing we do when we are trying to make a good decision about eating, for example.
Here’s the story.
We were driving home from the BYU v WVU football game at FedEx field on Saturday. We decided to pick up dinner somewhere along the way.
I found a restaurant in York that looked good and that wasn’t much out of our way home. (Turns out, it was really good food. I hope we go back.) When I told my husband where it was, I described its location based on the proximity to Maple Donuts, i.e., the best glazed sour cream donuts on earth.
At the stop light before Maple Donuts, he asked me if I wanted anything from Maple Donuts. Last chance. Some unknown source of inner strength pushed me to say that I didn’t want anything but that he was free to get something. No, he wouldn’t, he said.
We arrived at the restaurant. The First Post, if you’re ever in York, PA. I went inside to get the food. The bartender told me it would be about five minutes.
Then this happened. (I’m the blue in case you can’t tell.)
Then yesterday during my drive home from DC, I (voice) texted him and asked…
So my husband flexed his bicep at me this morning, and I knew what he meant.
Okay, I said. Solidarity. I won’t scratch anymore.
Still, and I am sure this comment will get a bit ridiculous after a few days, no noticeable symptoms.
I do feel like I am out of breath almost immediately when I do something as simple as walk up the stairs. And that is a possible sign of the blood building up in me. But it is most likely due to the fact that I am horribly out of shape.