the theragun

I’m almost 41, Morrison almost 42, which used to feel old to me, but now it of course feels young, but also old. The theragun sits on the kitchen counter and never leaves like it’s house keys or cleaner or a notepad for groceries (all of those things are also there.) It’s a mainstay, essential as a frying pan. Joe knows what it is, it’s a thing that lives in the kitchen, like a toaster. Is your body working? At night after the kids are asleep, after I watch some TV, I have to to theragun my legs, which hurt FROM SITTING. I hand it over to Morrison so he can theragun (now a verb) his back while we discuss logistics, we have full conversations while actively theragunning ourselves and never mention it, our voices vibrating and pushing through our young old bones, we need trash bags, did you write your Mom back? Did you see his rash? Will you get this part I can’t reach? We theragun each other, it’s romance and and it’s maintenance, it’s the nicest thing we do for each other all day. I’ve got your back, I say, meaning all of it.

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