Sean goes to the gym a lot. I go to the gym occasionally. And by occasionally–I mean 2 to 3 times a week. This is the absolute maximum that I can convince myself to get motivated for. I despise it. I despise working out….though I despise gaining weight even more. So…the gym it is.

Several months ago, Sean and I were doing partner ab exercises together. You lay on that slanted bench thingy and throw a weighted ball back and forth as you crunch up. I use a 5lb ball. Sean uses a 12lb ball. There are universal hand signals…like holding a hand up means: STOP THROWING. Holding a finger up means: Pause, let me catch my breath. Holding a thumb up and pulsing it toward the sky means: Throw the ball higher.

Well, despite the fact that we had been using these exact hand signals for almost a year, Sean got a bit confused. When I held my index finger in the air, he apparently mistook my “PAUSE, I NEED A BREATH” signal for “throw the ball higher.”

Time slowed down. I first notice Sean’s confused face as the ball bounced from his fingers into the air. I watched as the weighted ball came closer and closer to my face. Before my hands could react to the signals my brain was sending (CATCH THE BALL! CATCH THE BALL), it smacked me square in the nose.

Tears streamed from my eyes and a trickle of blood dripped over my top lip and onto my tongue. Sean, of course, rushed to my side apologizing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” He tried to put an arm around my shoulder.

“Just…” I held my hand up, “give me a moment.” I stood up from the bench and paced for a bit, walking off the pain. I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the blood from my face. After a few minutes, I felt slightly better and returned to my extremely concerned boyfriend.

“I’m sorry…” he said again quietly.

“If it’s broken, you’re paying the hospital bill.”

He nodded.

“And if I need a nose job because my schnozz is crooked…you’re paying for that too.”

He nodded again. “Want to punch me in the arm? It might make you feel better.”

“I think punching you in the nose would make me feel better…with a 12lb ball strapped to my wrist.”

Luckily, my nose was not broken. Just bruised…giving me two black eyes.

For a year now, Sean has been trying to get me to drink out of his ugly ass Star Trek mugs. I despise Star Trek…I’m always competing with that stupid show for Sean’s affection. (kidding) But I do hate the show. It’s so boring and will instantly put me to sleep with all of its monotone talking and white noise in the background.

So, the week we were moving, we realized that we needed to keep a few plates, glasses and silverware so that we could…oh, you know…survive for the week. And Sean–that punk–ONLY kept his Star Trek mugs. I tried everything to avoid using them. Cupping my hand under the faucet to sip water that way…but it seemed inevitable. I was going to have to drink from the horrid Star Trek mugs. And just as I was pulling a mug out of the cupboard to pour myself a glass of milk…I saw a package sitting on my counter from Sean’s cousin, Jeannie (who frequents this site a lot…HI JEANNIE!) And inside this care package was not only delicious home-made biscotti…but THIS MUG she bought for us in the Bahamas:

I drank from that thing every single day for a week…Jeannie, you are forever on my good list.