Apparently, I overdid the biking yesterday. Unless this aching so intense I can barely drag myself down the stairs might actually be the twinges of my conscience for misleading that nice family at the pool, even if I would have had to shout embarrassingly loud to rectify Annika's misstatement.
So here I am, nearly immobile at 6:30 am, and I realize that Jörg is the only one who knows where the stinky muscle rub cream is. I'm still trying to figure out if this inconvenient situation is a knockdown argument for marriage, or against. On the one hand, having someone who brings you the stinky muscle rub cream while you lay moaning on the couch is a pretty great thing. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure I always knew where to find my own stinky muscle rub cream back when I was single. Not that I actually ever needed stinky muscle rub cream back when I was young, footloose, and freakishly flexible, so perhaps the point is moot.
But nevermind, since thinking too hard makes my thighs ache.
We miss you, Jörg! And if you happen to take a break during "working" to read this, and value a wife who doesn't wince with every step, please please email me. I promise I'll work harder to explain to Frankie the difference between a "vacation" and "serious out-of-town work which is not at all fun and, besides, helps pay for that little Polly Pocket addiction she and her sister have."
update: Not just an email, but an actual call! Public whining really does get results! Sadly, Jörg does not have a super-secret stash of stinky muscle rub cream anywhere. We're just out, old Ben-Gay farts that we are.