I slept in the spare bedroom last night.
No, we did not partake in our first kerfuffle on the eve of our three-month anniversary. Dustin’s sick. And while I’m a firm believer in toughing it out with the one you love, he mentioned sleeping upstairs might behoove us both: me, so I don’t wake up every time he coughs, flops around, gets up, or despairs, aloud; and him, so he doesn’t feel bad every time he coughs, flops around, gets up, or despairs, aloud.
So, I trudged myself upstairs and settled in to the guestroom.
Once there, I learned a thing or two: one, our spare bed is quite delightful. So we’ll need to make sure and only offer it to those we know will actually leave. And two, sound carries. So no tomfoolery for us whilst said guests are there. I mean, really . . .
In other news: Puxatony Phil saw his shadow. That’s six more weeks of winter. At the very least, I’m hoping cold and flu season calls it early. It’s definitely worn out its welcome.
Needless to say, I hope this finds you well. May the days ahead be filled with rest and relaxation, warmth and comfort–a good downtime, so you can wake up and slay dragons next week . . .