I am a bit of a worrywart. I know, it shocks the mind. Most would say that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, but you know what, I TOTALLY DO! As a result, I am somewhat worried, or paranoid, whenever my husband goes away that something horrific is going to happen to him. I understand why I have this particular brand of insanity, and quite frankly I'm okay with it. Usually I keep my insanity to myself, though to hear Boo talk, you would think I am trying to keep him wrapped in bubblewrap and secured to a well cushioned chair in an underground windowless room. For the record, the room does have one window; the human body needs sunshine to make Vitamin D.
In any event, when Boo was leaving for a three day jaunt in to NYC for work this week, I told him to be careful. I might have been a little more adamant than that and referenced things like seatbelts and anti-bacterial hand wipes, but you know what? I WAS RIGHT! Granted, I was worried about some cracked up, drunk, socialite driving the wrong way on the Tapanzee, not some assfuck bombing the military recruiting center in Times Square. But still! Since I knew Boo was okay considering the locale of his hotel, and I knew that all reports indicated that no one was hurt, I have to say I felt quite smug when I called him at 7:00a.m. "just to make sure he wasn't hurt in the explosion." Maybe I was a bit pompous, a bit supercilious, when I called, but I had every right to be because just this once, my worrying was not for not.