Just a little while ago Sweet Baboo walked in to find me relaxing in a hot garden tub bath. "Whatcha doin'?" he asked rhetorically.
"I'm relaxing," I boasted. "And it's everything I thought it could be."
He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. He puttered around for awhile, putting on jogging clothes, and then wanted to say something again. Then he didn't, and he went out for a run.
He wanted to say, "you should be running. You've been getting angry and depressed and it's the only thing that helps you."
He probably also wanted to say, "You have a 31-mile ultra marathon in 4 weeks, and you need to be out running. You haven't done much running since your last maraton 2 weeks ago."
He may have even been thinking, "I want you to have a good time at the Black Warrior 50K. You won't have a good time if you aren't trained for it."
But, alas; like many a man who loves a woman, he lives in the shadow of uncertainty. He is, like many a well-meaning man, cowed by PMS, and my general moodiness. And so, he is silent.
I don't feel like running. But I need to, exactly because I don't feel like it. And the stuff that he's thinking? Well, he's right. I love him for his uncertainty, and his hesitation, and his love for me, and his worry and fear of reprisal.
And so I'm going for a run.
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