Limping to the finish line

Today marks my entry into the "late thirties." I turn 36 today, and I figure that 34, 35, and 36 qualify as the mid-thirties. But by turning 36, I have begun my 37th year, thus beginning the slide into 40. See, it's all downhill from here.

My last day of 35 was, well, interesting. We knew that it would be a bit chaotic because all of the remaining houseguests were leaving. We left the house at 7am to take Mr. Dish's* parents to the airport. Well, before we even left the driveway, we managed to start the day off with a bang. No, he didn't run into the house. He ran over my foot. Essentially, I was leaning into the back seat to deposit my purse on the floor before stepping into the car. He thought that I had actually entered the car and started driving away. Wheel, meet foot. It is much better that he went forward, because had he had backed up, the door would have knocked me over or worse. Yesterday my foot was twice the normal size and quite sore. Today, it's almost back to normal and the bruising is minimal. I did go to the doctor (not the ER) as a precaution, but we decided that x-rays were not really warranted given the localization of the pain to my big toe, so we're treating it as a bad bruise/hairline fracture and just going from there. But it's great to tease Mr. Dish over and over about how he might want to give me a different birthday gift next year. And every time we've gone out since then, he has stood next to me and watched while I put every last limb into the car. It's kind of cute. I guess I could be angry, but he's been beating himself up enough about it.

Things are calm in the Dish household now that everyone has departed. I know that Mr. D lives for the chaos, as he grew up with it. I grew up with a bit more structure, with plans that would be made, and people that did not just show up on your doorstep. I like the excitement to a degree because it is a new way to experience family. But eventually the northern European stock comes through and I start to fall apart with the lack of structure. Mr. D's stock response is always, "You're such a German." Nice.

Tonight, weather permitting, we're going to an outdoor concert. Tomorrow, the new dishwasher arrives (I have one of the potentially flaming variety), and Sunday is the group dog walk (minus me, of course...what with the foot and all). And somewhere in there will be cake. Lots of cake.

*No, I'm not sporting a new husband. I've decided that using the initial "A" gets confusing in the body of the text, so he has become Mr. Dish or Mr. D.