We've had a rough couple of Sundays. They are usually the one day each week that we try to put everything serious down and attempt to cook, relax and have non-rushed sex. What could go wrong, really. Only takes a couple things it turns out.
  Relaxing can be tough. If you've ever sat for meditation or yoga and felt the muscles stiffen around your neck or your shoulder blades crack when you try to roll them back you know this. The mind screams fuck this and onto the next and then you notice your hands are balled up and sweaty.
  I don't even remember the first problem. Probably an argument over whether she bought eggs or I opened the curtains while we were still in our robes. We each have these soft fuzzy robes. Mine is pastel blue and hers pastel pink. They are both perfect and revoltingly gendered. Truth is the colors don't matter to us at all, until I open the curtains too fucking early and the world notices and gets all judgy the way the world does. Ya know? I know. It's for the best.
  We walked out of the gym Saturday morning. Well, Turbo walked. I hobbled as I do on most leg days. My thighs and knees feeling like they could buckle at any moment. I can't feel my calves which is reassuring, sorta. I wonder each time why I do this to myself and then remember that adding strength training to my routine helps keep me from falling over my own feet as I am so prone to do. I also wonder at this point if I were to go down could I actually get myself back up? This incites panic and if I didn't appear to have a rigid enough gait now I look like I'm crossing the lot on two polished hammers, terrified. As we stood at my unlocked doors she clicked the clicker for her car. We had a little laugh at this point. "This is my car," I said "your shit doesn't work here." That was the last time she saw her keys. No one noticed until Sunday morning they were missing.