Stop reading.
Stop reading.
Stop reading.
Or you'll likely be sorry.
Warning complete.
Yesterday, it was that oh-so-awe-inspiring yearly occasion of female medical responsibility we so early-1800's-ish call the "annual." (Or, for the about half of you following this blog who'll favor the reference, I paid a visit to Dr. Weary).
But, alas (and thank the good God above), this post is not about that. Or, not precisely anyway.
If your burgeoning memory remains intact enough, you'll recall the renderings of my last post, "Go Big", reflected on looking at the everyday "Wherever, Whatever"'s with as much intentionality and total presence as I can muster. On the eve after its writing, I was sitting in the study pondering just that sentiment with my oh-so-clever (did you know that about him?) husband. Now, you may not realize that I did not, in fact, marry him merely for his body, his heart, his soul, or his character. Nay, nay I say.
It was the wit. The wit. The wit. The wit.
The.
Wit.
Next to loyalty, it's my favorite trait.
(Necessary aside.
Hang on with me. )
Upon the conclusion of a not-too-bad-for-a-Tuesday-evening exchange, our chat moved towards more practical matters; namely, what our next days held. Craig shared his to-do list and I, in my less than ecstatic droll, remarked, "Tomorrow, I have to go and have a speculum shoved into my vagina."
(Yeah, if you're a guy, and you just read that, I offer no apologies. I told you, didn't I? Didn't I?!)
And with what did my caustically witty husband - fist pump and hearty grin in merry accompaniment - reply?
"Go Big."
Wit.
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