Husbandrinka has turned into a bit of a health nut recently, eating healthful foods, swimming, drinking only on occasion. (And not on the “it’s evening! I made it through another day!” occasion that I seem to be celebrating.) He also walks to work. His office is a few miles away, so he has to leave early. And comes home late.
Perhaps you know where this is going.
And one morning, so did I.
Because on that morning, as I moved his jacket, I saw something underneath and my heart sank.
It was a pair of Heavy Hands.
Do you know from Heavy Hands? (Amazon Affiliate link.)
First of all, I thought they became extinct in the 1990s.
And second of all, why were they under his jacket.
“Do you…walk..with these?” I approached him carefully, because goodness knows how long he has before he snaps.
“Sure!” he said. He didn’t seem alarmed that I found them.
“But it doesn’t do anything if you just keep them in your pocket,” I was feeling more brave.
“I don’t keep them in my pocket. I use them.”
“Use them?” I asked. My mind was a numb place.
“Yes, like I do curls while I walk.”
And then he grabbed the Heavy Hands and showed me. Biceps curls. Triceps curls. Quintuplet curls.
It was like One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and into my life.
I almost fainted.
“But don’t other people see you?” I asked.
“Yeah, but who cares? No one ever says anything.”
“Of course they don’t say anything!” I exclaimed. “Because they think you’re fucking insane.”
He sort of shrugged. Or maybe he was working on his shoulders.
But since I found out I haven’t had a moment’s peace. Because I’m pretty sure he’s doing this whole heavy handed thing to build up his insanity defense for when he ends up killing me.
I am in danger.
And now that you read this post, so are you.
One year ago ...