Yay Tuesday.
We made it almost an entire year without him injuring himself in some way. Just like the last time, he didn’t tell me until we were actually together. It took nearly 20 years, but he’s finally figured it out: if I can’t actually do anything other than worry, he doesn’t need to tell me this shit over text message. He was getting into the car and said, “I didn’t tell you earlier, but I hurt myself a bit…”
A bit.
“A bit,” in this case, is the simplified version of “I took a tailpipe to the face, pretty much broke my glasses, and gashed my eye socket.” It wasn’t gaping and gnarly, and I was able to bandage him up a bit after he cleaned it in the shower. Later, he asked if not telling me was the right thing to do. I assured him that unless he’s at a point where he either needs to leave work, or it’s nothing more serious than what I’d get in my job, I don’t want to know. If I can’t do anything, telling me does nothing but get me needlessly worked up for the rest of my shift.
BossRPh caught me on my way out yesterday. “You don’t need to take it, but do you want Thursday off?” Hell yes, I’ll take a day off. That shouldn’t even be a question. I’ve also requested a day off next month. Since the schedule is already being made for my birthday week, I asked for a day off the following week. He’s taking the day off as well, and the two of us are just going to spend the day relaxing. I’m not sure when we’ll be doing my birthday dinner, and there’s a birthday gift somewhere in the house that he’s been taunting me with for a week or so now.
I should get to working on my wishlist.
