Last night Jon and I were wrestling — yes, wrestling, I grew up in Memphis, Wrestling Capital of the World, and it is an enjoyable pastime I brought into the marriage; Jon’s contribution to the marriage: Gigs and gigs and gigs of RAM — did you just notice that I used a dash, semi-colon, AND a colon in the same sentence? CAN YOU HANDLE IT? That’s what I usually say to Jon before I RAM my head into his chest and take him to the ground, a move I learned from Jerry Lawler. And when he gets upset about the ramming, I’m all YOU’RE THE ONE WHO BROUGHT ALL THAT RAM INTO THIS RELATIONSHIP.

I guess you could say that our wrestling is an adult, married form of flirting, the equivalent of two kids on a playground hitting each other because they secretly want to go behind the dugout and show each other their private parts. Recently we’ve been taking the whole physicality of the wrestling to a new level, because I’ve been working out and have a long-shot of actually beating Jon, someone who weighs 60 pounds more than I do.

Last night I realized that that long-shot was just a figment of my imagination on crack, because within about 10 seconds he had me flat on my back and he was crushing me with his ribcage. I pointed out that this was wholly unfair because he does weigh 60 pounds more than I do, the amount of weight Anna Nicole Smith lost on TrimSpa. He immediately pointed out, “Yes, and TrimSpa is under INVESTIGATION. They are being INVESTIGATED. So you have no point.”

This made NO SENSE WHATSOEVER, but because he was cutting of circulation to my brain I found it unbearably hilarious and started to giggle. And the cardinal rule of wrestling as everyone knows is DO NOT GIGGLE, because all that does is render your entire body helpless and open season for tickling. And you might as well kill me because tickling is DEATH TIMES TEN. And the only way out, alas, you men are going to hate me for this, but the only way out is to threaten the nads.

Thank God for nads.