The first day after my surgery, I, tired of daytime television even then, loaded the second Lord of the Rings movie into the DVD player. I am an admirer—having read the books, I am awed that they were able to make this trilogy into a movie. At times, there are three complete and separate storylines moving along different timelines (but ultimately toward the same end). Meaning, the makers of the trilogy had to physically map out all three storylines and using the clues in the writing, deduct where they fall in on the master order of events! I just think that's so gosh darn spiffy.

The phone rings or breakfast calls, or something happens to distract Nick (who stayed home with me that first day) away from the television. Respectful, very drugged, and slightly asleep, I slur, "D'jou want me to press pause?"

"No, that's okay. I've seen this movie like seven times since I met you."

Nick and I spent a good deal of time inside of my car this weekend...and, as he reached for my hand (as he regularly does) two hours into the first leg, he exclaimed, "How come YOUR hands are soft and mind are dry!?" I shrugged in lieu of defending that I've had my butt diced up, and shouldn't I be allowed soft hands as compensation? We had been breakfasting two hours earlier, and as we chose our table, I experienced my first shock of the trip.

With all due respect to the dignitaries, heads of state, and parents in the LauraLore reading audience, I won't mention precisely where Nick's outstretched fingers zapped me, only that he said was trying to remove a bit of fuzz from my cardigan. I clutched my hand over the affected area and guarded it protectively with my poutiest expression. Until coffee came. Then the rapture swallowed the pout whole and the message was lost.

The entire weekend was rather electric, actually...and I began to fear kissing and touching of any sort (from Nick): I came THIS close to demanding he ground himself before entering my 18-inch radius. We greeted each other this morning as he, fresh from his shower, noticed me for the first time of the day. He leaned down to kiss me and then jerked back, poking his index finger into his cheek wildly. Saucer-eyed, he warned, "I don't know how much electricity I have..."

Wrapping my arms around my body and tensing every muscle I'm capable of tensing, I clamped my eyes shut and tilted my chin up on a whimpering pucker and waited for my end.

I've chosen today to focus on a torture I have not yet subjected myself to: pants. Not that I'm not content to exist in the world of lumpy, frumpy pajama bottoms, but they're not so much socially acceptable. At the hospital last Tuesday, I whimpered to Nick that I felt like such a schmuck going out in public looking like I did, and I was secretly on the look out for a What Not to Wear camera catching me at my worst. He grabbed my hand and leaned down to speak into my ear, "You're in a hospital." Right. That changes things.

But, sooner or later, I will reenter the real world...and I've got to retrain myself to accept that my bottom half must be adequately clothed, I've just got to...because I don't live in Canada. I walked around today with my legs spread widely while I wobbled all stooped over like a bowlegged Quasimodo. I don't think you quite get my plight: denim. was. touching. my. butt. Have you seen the end of Braveheart? They're torturing this guy to death and he cries, "FREEDOM!" Yeah, totally get that now.

I'm proud to say that I kept my jeans on all day long, even when I wanted to give up...because, if for no other reason, I get to see Anna this weekend at her housewarming party. I haven't seen dear Anna in nearly five years and I'd hate for her to think I've become an exhibitionist. (Or, rather, than I can't turn it off.)

Well, I, personally, couldn't do it. I could not emerge from my comfortable place only to meet the chill of the way things really are. Nick has the fortitude that I lack, obviously, as this is a challenge he faces every morning before starting his day: coming out of the closet.

Returning a pair of shoes to their rightful place, I understood today, maybe for the first time, his struggle. There was a special quality in that little space that had me slowing the turn of my heel. I hesitated a moment before finding the nerve to leave.

Quite simply, Nick's closet is the warmest place in the whole condo.

I had just finished watching back-to-back 30 Minute Meals. I've long ago decided that those recipes do only take 30 minutes...if your name is Rachael Ray. "What are you hungry for?" he asks me as the 2nd episode concludes and I shrug. He moves to the kitchen, wanting to get dinner underway. He pulls the cupboard doors open, all of them, before commencing the meal.

I steal a glance at him through the available sliver of my view, and he's standing at the stove stirring something, shifting his legs fluidly. He moves well. He's mumbling some sweet nothing to the heated pan, then cocking his neck with telling attitude...and as the sizzling pierces the space, I can pull his statement from the air.

"Who needs Rachael Ray when you've got Betty Crocker."

You tell 'em, Nick.