Alex and I were getting ready for bed the other night when “State of Grace” came on Pandora. I was suddenly struck with an inspired frenzy—the sort of thing that can only be brought on by some impromptu T. Swift. I jumped on the bed and began dancing. Alex was pre-fluffing his pillow and quickly caught the contagious energy of the moment. He jumped to join me– only he wasn’t interested in actually dancing. Instead, he assumed a wrestlers stance with feet spread wide, body hunched and arms up, ready to attack.
“No,” I screamed, “this moment is for dancing!”
This did nothing to dissuade him. He looked ready to pounce, so I did what I always do in such situations: I fell dead weight onto the bed, knowing my ninja skills are much more effective in a horizontal situation. He followed suit, using me as his landing pad, and I quickly bucked his weight off of me. He went flying much further than I anticipated, his face twisting from elation to bewilderment.
The lamp went flying, flickering on and off like a strobe light, adding even more drama to the T. Swift.
“Are you okay?” I yelled, rushing to his side.
The contents of the table were scattered around him: half-burnt candles, shot gun shells, and a smattering of AAA batteries belonging to a sex toy.
He didn’t say a word. He just laid there. I tried to wedge myself between him and the bed.
“Are you okay?” I asked again.
He finally grunted some sort of confirmation that he was still alive. I took this as permission to start laughing, already replaying the mental image of him flying backwards, a tangle of arms and legs, confused as a turtle on its back.
There were tears coming out of my eyes. It was like the roundabout all over again.
He seemed to be completely stunned by what had just happened.
“Did you… did you push me?” he finally asked.
“No,” I said. “This was a fair fight!”
He looked at me like I betrayed him, and I could see the haunting of a similar moment from a few weeks before. He and Zola had run from the bedroom to head downstairs to the kitchen when I heard a horrible THUD THUD CRASSSHHH.
“Oh no,” I yelled, “Is she okay?”
I was already picturing my poor Zola– mildly obese and quickly aging—lying in a crumpled mess at the bottom of the stairs, surrounded by shoes that I’d been too lazy to carry to my closet.
There was no answer. I ran to the top of the stairs and looked down to see my husband—fit and young of age—lying in a crumpled mess at the bottom of the stairs, surrounded by my shoes.
“I fell,” he said.
I plummeted down the stairs, quickly checking his body for broken bones and lacerations. When I realized he wasn’t dying, I started wheezing with laughter. It was too much. He looked so dejected and I kept replaying the sound of his fall, desperately wishing I’d been there to see it in all its awkward glory.
“I can’t believe you’re laughing at me,” he said.
I couldn’t even defend myself, I was laughing too hard.
“Your first thought was of the dog, you don’t even care about me,” he accused. “You ran out here to see if she was okay and she didn’t even fall.”
I looked around, realizing Zola was nowhere to be seen.
“Where’d she go?”
“She ran out of the way when I started falling. I think she thought I was going to land on top of her and she didn’t want to die.”
She must have remembered the time I threw her down a flight of stairs when she was a puppy.
He made no effort to move so I tried to assure him of my love by petting him in between bouts of laughter.
“Here,” I said, touching his face with the back of my hand, “I will heal you with oxytocin.”
Thankfully that was an effective enough treatment for both of these injuries. I never realized how dangerous my house was, or how accident-prone Alex could be. But what can I say? He keeps falling for me.
Do you laugh when your significant other is injured? Have you ever laughed at someone who fell down? What weird shit is next to YOUR bed?
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