I LOVE my husband.

I mean, I really love him. We live an unpredictable life we could never pull off if I didn’t love him down to his guts.

That being said-

“Hi! We’re back!” I call out.

“Hey, did you find everything you need?” my husband asks.

We’re staying at our dear friend’s house.  They’re set to join us for the weekend and I want a nice dinner ready for them when they arrive.

“I did!” I beam, “and the drive to the store was so charming-all the old homes and…is something wrong?  Why are you standing in the doorway like that?”

I know my husband. He has a clammy look about him as if the effort to wrack his brain for an explanation caused him to break into a fine sweat.

“I did something,” he says, “something bad.”

“What do you mean?” I marvel as I ascend the driveway to the front door, “We were gone for forty-five minutes-what could have possibly happened?”

“Well, I think it will be ok. I think I can fix it.”

“Fix it? Oh no! What happened?”

“Well,” he offers, “the story is kind of funny-see, I decided to do some yoga…”

“Yoga??? You decided to do yoga?”

This man-my husband-has not done yoga for eight years, which qualifies him as having never done yoga.

margi young-self magazine->

“Well it was one of Margi’s downloads and she wanted us to do handstands at the wall…”

Margi is my favorite yoga teacher on the planet.

“Okaaaay,” I say suspiciously, “are you implicating Margi?”

“Well, no, of course not.  It’s just, the handstands went so well I decided to do the forearm stand in the middle of the room…”

the middle of the room

“What???” I blurt out with a laugh of bewilderment mixed with admiration for his momentary fearlessness, “I’ve practiced yoga for fifteen years and never do a forearm stand in the middle of the room.”

“Well, I thought if I fell, I would just land on my feet again-I didn’t realize I’d flip over.”

a forearm the middle of the room.
a forearm stand…in the middle of the room.

“Oh NO!” I’m in the foyer now-both hands cover my face to shield myself from the shattered vase or broken lamp I’m about to see.

“Of course you flip over!” I say as if possessed by either Jerry Seinfeld or Larry David or both, “That’s what happens!  You flip over!”

I make swirling, circular loops to complement my words with my index fingers-as if the gesture alone can undo what’s been done.  I round the corner into the living room as he continues, “Well, yeah-so, I flipped over and toppled into the bench…”

this bench

“…and the corner of the bench slammed into the window.”

I freeze wide eyed at the entry way to the living room and stare at the following sight in our friends’ lovely new home.


I close my eyes and exhale all the air out of my lungs while my husband explains in the background all the various ways he can remedy the situation.

“You know,” I interrupt, “I love you so much, but sometimes I think we’re in a Will Ferrel movie.”


  • If it’s any consolation your misfortune makes for wonderful reading. Lovely post and thanks for putting a smile on our faces!

  • This crap about Margi being his yoga instructor really frosts me. Why didn’t he just man up and admit that I am his yoga instructor?

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