So, Nick was sick last night. We were at a restaurant, waiting for our dinners to be served, and you could just tell. See, there's this thing going on with college basketball right now. I guess it's a big deal...everybody seems to be talking about it. Nick put in a lot of extra hours at work last week so he could spend a good portion of Friday watching the marathon of basketball games. I dunno...seems like an awfully good time to catch up on sleep...or eyebrow-tweezing...but that's just me.

But at 7:30 last evening, after starting his day at 3 that morning, Nick looked rough. When our food arrived, he didn't touch it. Kara offered him Midol earlier for his headache...but Nick refused, for obvious, macho reasons. Still, we kept coaxing him to "take a hit", citing a promise land of headache relief. Eventually he relented, taking a half-dose. We teased him, naturally...about the soon-to-be softened state of his sexuality, cravings for chocolate, and constant agitation. Womanhood is comprised of these: read 'em and weep, boys.

Anyway, fast forward to this morning. Let's just dance around the topic a bit and say that I am feeling serious fatigue, probably from the anemia I meet at this time every month. Nick hugged me consolingly, directing me to lean in, advising, "Now it'll be ok: I took Midol."