Sam took a little solo hiking and camping trip yesterday and today, and climbed 7 mountains in 2 days (seriously). He needed and deserved it and went with my blessing. BUT... I expected him at lunch time, and he didn't come home, and he didn't come home, and I had no idea if he was lost, hurt, cold, dead, asleep, hungry or just being a bad husband. I was really starting to worry, and wonder how I was going to start the search and rescue operation, and how I was going to raise two kids alone (and these were my actual thoughts) how I was going to live without him, how I was going to run 18 miles in the morning without him here, who I was going to call first when he didn't show up, what time I was actually going to officially start freaking out (7:30, I decided), and when I was going to call his parents to let them know. I also thanked the lord that we just officially got life insurance last week. I was feeling so so sorry for my poor widowed self, when finally, he pulled in at 5:35 pm. And then I wasn't feeling tender or worried anymore; I was just mad. Isn't that the way?
And then? We kissed and made up and all is well, after I gave him the "how hard is it to call me? routine (the man refuses to have a cell phone). And then we got pizza because I'm carbing up for my run tomorrow and didn't feel like cooking (too worried!), and while I was on the phone with Suzanne, he ate the last two pieces of my pizza (a greek, with chicken, really good). And so I showed him this, which is exactly how it feels sometimes to be married to Sam who eats all the good stuff before I can get to it, and who never calls me to say he's on the way home.
This is really just exactly the kind of thing that Sam and I find to be funny, and we laughed our heads off, and all is well, and I'm very glad to have him here with his blistered feet and very adorable wind-swept, sun-burned face, and there are so many things I don't have to worry about now that he is home safe.