Conversation between me and my husband:
me: My feet hurt
Victor: Your feet always hurt.
me: Because of all the ass I’m kicking.
Victor: *raised eyebrow*
me: And also because of my rheumatoid arthritis.
Victor: That sounds more accurate.
me: And I might need new shoes.
me: And a piggy-back ride.
me: And a step ladder so that I can get on your back, because I don’t think I can jump that high anymore without both of us getting injured.
me: I’d settle for a wheelbarrow.
me: Not the thing we did in elementary P.E. where you carry my legs and I walk on my hands. I mean a real wheelbarrow. One that you could push me in.
me: It’d be like a wheelchair. But whimsical.
me: But we’d need to fill it with pillows, or sedated cats. And some ziploc bags filled with frozen margaritas. And some maybe streamers to make it festive. And a flare gun for whenever you leave me in the middle of the grocery store and forget what aisle I’m on.
Victor: I wouldn’t call it “forgetting.”
me: But I’m not sure you can bring a gun in a grocery store, so maybe some just roman candles and a lighter. And some sort of bullhorn.
Victor: You know, they have these cool new things called “benches”. You just sit your ass down on them when your feet hurt.
me: Oh my God, you are so mainstream.
Victor: You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.
me: I’m just saying, keep the wheelbarrow idea in the back of your mind. In case you want to surprise me by being awesome one day.
Victor: With a wheelbarrow?
me: Yeah. With a wheelbarrow. Most girls want diamonds and fancy summer houses. I just want a goddam surprise wheelbarrow every now and then. You are incredibly lucky to have me.
Victor: That’s what I keep trying to tell myself.