Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder tooday.

Disclaimer: I love my husband, that is certainly not in question. This morning he about pushed me over the edge. As you know my grip on reality is already tenuous, and with this behavior, he has positioned himself as the centerpiece of today's bit of written therapy. I warned him. 

Now as if working out isn't hard enough; getting up at the crack of dawn to work out, well in my eyes you should get some kind of medal. It sucks, plain and simple. Sure, when you are done you feel pretty good about yourself, minus the fact that now you have to get in the shower and hopefully after, not before said shower, attempt to carry your stout three year old down the steps. Recall, he is very whiny in the morning and needs quite a bit of tlc, he does not care that you are exhausted. Of course the fact that your arms have little to no strength left to lift him is beside the point. Just hold on, but not with your arms, to the fact that you have accomplished something amazing. Then, try not to cry as the day is just starting! Go get em girl!

So, downstairs I go, spring in my step. (ya, right) Ready and willing to be tortured by the inane comments of our wonderful, and ridiculously fit instructor, Tony Horton. Turn on TV. Drag out weights. Make sure volume is low, as last week it was so loud upon start that it almost gave me a heart attack. AND, important to know, I do not want to wake children. In fact that is one of my main goals of this exercise session. COMPLETE SANS CHILDREN. Husband calls down, get started. I do. Warming up.

Bounding down the steps my darling husband decides (now wait a minute here. I don't know that this is a conscious decision, I think it is a similar condition to Tourette's. {see disclaimer on post number 2}) that now is the right time to start singing, at a very high volume,

Don't ask her on a straight tequila night.
She'll start thinkin' about him, then she's ready to fight.
Blames her broken heart on every man in sight,
On a straight tequila night.

Yes, he did.

Honey!
What?
The kids! You are going to wake them up!
No I'm not!
They listen for your voice, they can hear you!
They do not.
UGGG!

I exhale. continue with reps. This song has been in husband's head for a few days now. We could be sitting watching tv, driving in the car, eating dinner, anywhere really and he is compelled by some greater force to sing this song at top volume.

A few minutes pass. Bicep curls, husband turns to me and with mournful features says:

Here's a glass of Chablis, some quarters and change:
Maybe you can turn her love life around.
Then she won't need the salt or the lime anymore,
To shoot that old memory down.

What can I do but laugh. Obviously this man has lost his mind. And that is a good thing, as it will allow us to relate on an entirely new level. And you can't even get MAD at him, as much as I want to be because I KNOW HE IS GOING TO WAKE UP THE BABY, you have to admire his silliness. He makes me laugh more than anyone I have ever met. 

Trudging through the next set of dips I look over him. OOHH, AAHH, OOHH, AAHH. Boy I am really going deep on these! WOW! and he jumps up. Once again, he is overcome with emotion for this poor jilted woman:

Blames her broken heart on every man in sight,
On a straight tequila night.

MOMMMYYYYY!