The art of roses

John brought me red roses and a card; the man knows the art of the rose.

Then he rode home on his bike. I didn't say a word until he mentioned his friend said he was mad at him for riding a motorcycle with broken ribs (this is after my neighbor said the same thing). I got LOUD. There were things said about his competition isn't younger guys and never was, setting a good example, being patient with the healing process, etc. Once off the chain, I have to rein in my temper pretty quick, because it spirals, and the more worked up I am, the worse it is.

I get pretty worked up about neglecting broken ribs.

We agreed he would wait a couple of weeks and talk to me before riding the bike again. The creaky ribs from (he says) unrelated work stuff worked in my favor. I'd like to him able to pick the bike up if he lays it down before he gets on it again.

Did I mention he's fretting because he can't go to the gym? He talked about getting on an exercise bike. Picture what that would do to cracked ribs, which still make lovely popping sounds, btw.

He mowed the yard and weed whacked last night, too.

Face palm. Men.