The man I'm married to is made out of spun sugar. Before you go all "Aww, isn't that adorable" on me, let me clarify. He is made out of spun sugar not because he is super-duper sweet, but because he is so fragile, a stiff wind can bust his junk. Well, maybe not his junk per se, but anyway.
He's always had rotten knees. Blame genetics, blame sports, blame me for going after him with a baseball bat, but regardless, he's not in the best of knee-shape. Two years ago, a trip to his alma mater, combined with an ice storm and some Jager, resulted in intensive knee surgery. We thought all would be well and good, until Hubbs got the genius idea to play a tackle football game this fall. Yes, he scored a touchdown. He also scored another round of "rebuild the knee."
The doc told us this one would be way more intensive, that he'd be off work for up to 8 weeks, so on and so forth. We made peace with the idea that he was going to wear a two-month butt groove on the couch. We put in the paperwork for temporary disability. We ... didn't get him that mountain bike for Christmas because that would have just been cruel.
He went under the knife on Friday. He'll be back at work most likely next week. The injury wasn't as bad as originally expected. Hubbs is sad that he's not getting the two-month nap he was expecting, but I think under it all, he's feeling the same thing I am: Relief.