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Christmas Eve

As I write this, a gorgeous man with a pair of basketball shorts, backwards Yankees cap, and a white t-shirt wrapped around his nose and mouth is cleaning my ceiling fan. This is all because I woke yesterday morning with a slight cough.

I endured a day of a million questions about my health and well-being. Did I feel any phlegm? Was the sensation in my throat one of pain or scratchiness? Did I have a fever? Were my glands swollen? Each question was followed by a quick check of my vitals--including an ear to my back to check my breathing.

The cough gradually grew worse, and I woke this morning with a fever. I wish you could have seen the look in his eyes and his brief, "I told you something was wrong" as he brought me breakfast in bed and gave me an interesting concoction of medicines designed to alleviate my symptoms.

This man has now completely swept my floors (including under the furniture), cleaned my furniture, the blinds, and the ceiling fans. He's given me a few lectures about how the dust is bad for my respiratory system. And he throws in a few "How are you feeling?" and kisses and reminders that he loves me.

I think this is the perfect Christmas Eve.

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