Grace and I have been together for just a smidgen over seven years.
In that time we’ve developed a sort of innate ability to realize what situations warrant real, genuine concern and which situations merely warrant a head nod and an automatic mmmhhhmmmmm.
The day after Thanksgiving we were taking our sweet-ass time to get the day started as we’re wont to do. Grace was in the kitchen nibbling at some leftover cherry pie and I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and preparing to actually start the day.
I grabbed for my contact lens case, but in doing so it slipped. I frantically reached out to snatch it and in the process managed to hit the door of our medicine cabinet/mirror into my head.
In a surprisingly polished, yet completely un-choreographed move, I stumbled backwards tripping up and over the edge of the toilet and fell ass over tea-kettle back into the living room.
I bounced off the arm rest of the couch and landing on the ground whimpering.
Grace came storming in the room, in what I assumed was a frantic panic regarding my safety.
While I rolled around clutching the side of my now swelling head, Grace simply picked up her laptop and slid it out of the way so that I wouldn’t kick it while thrashing about and meandered back into the kitchen to finish her cherry pie.
I sat up and before I could even go into some dramatic rant about how I could have died there on the floor, she beat me to the punch from the other room.
“Oh shut up, you’re fine,” she said. “Stop being such a drama queen.”
…and she was right.
I was fine.
It hurt like a mofo, but I clearly wasn’t dying or gushing blood from my noggin, so it wasn’t really anything worth flipping out about.
That gal’s got a drama-sensor that’d get the folks at NASA in a tizzy.