June 9, 2008

Jeremy's Healthy, But Not Ready To Fight

Today, unebnownst to me, my beloved husband, Jeremy, had a physical. I'm so proud of him for going just to have his annual check up. I didn't even have to bug him to go. He's only gone to the doctor four times in the entire time we've been married. Once because he had Strep and I literally physically forced him in the car and drove him there myself. Two other times for general physicals for our adoption applications and then today.

Anyway, when I arrived home from work today, I asked him all about his appointment. The first thing out of his mouth is, "The doctor says I'm healthy enough for sex."

I was confused.

He then told me that while he waited in the exam room for the doctor to enter, there was a huge poster on the back of the door trying to pimp out Viagra. The tag line was "Ask your doctor if you are healthy enough for sexual activity."

Viagra jokes are so 90's. Oh, but he thought he was so clever. I asked him if he actually asked the doctor about that. Of course he didn't dare. But he admitted that he kept thinking about that poster and cracking himself up the entire time. The doctor probably wondered what was wrong with him.

Also, he told me that he had the lab technicians all up in stitches with his humor. When they took Jeremy's blood they first asked him if he was allergic to latex. He replied, "I don't know, I've never eaten it before." Wah, wah, wah.

A few minutes later my healthy, sexually able, latex resistant husband went into the kitchen to make brownies (cause that's what healthy people eat, yo). I challenged him to a little shadow boxing.

I thought my form was pretty fine. Jeremy then gave me a look that can only be described as his "bring it" face. Notice the aggressive stance of the male.

I am not backing down. He may have had blood drawn once today, but if I had my way, it would certainly not be the last time. For the drawing of the blood, that is. Do you catch where I'm going with this?

Suddenly, Jeremy sees his chance to try out his enhanced fighting technique that he dreamed up in Vegas. He diverts my attention upwards by throwing something (a brownie box mix, in this case) up over my head.

See how distracted I am?

He then uses both hands to clock me square in the neck.

But I am wise to his game. I quickly, so quickly it cannot be caught on film, give him a swift roundhouse to the gut.

No, no, I tell him. You may be healthy enough for sex, but not fast enough for me.

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