So we’re—what?—six days into marathon training and I’m already injured. My left calf seized up on Tuesday, but I ran on it anyway. BIG MISTAKE. I’ve had a limp since then, and the damn thing is still tender to the touch.
So today the domestic partner and I went to see a lawyer. Which, as a sentence, should win me some kind of misleading-transition award. Because we went to the lawyer to finally set up wills, powers of attorney and everything else you need to keep yourself legally protected when the American Taliban has made sure you can’t get the basic protections of marriage.
So we sat for an hour in nice leatherback chairs and discussed with a dude who had been up until then a complete stranger to us exactly who gets our stuff when we die (Nick Lachey!), who gets to make decisions about our health should we be come incapacitated (Tom Welling!) and who should be first in line to give us mouth-to-mouth resuscitation (James Marsden!) should we fall into an unconscious swoon. We should get a rough draft of all our documents in a week or so, which we will dutifully read during Family Guy commercials. Then we’ll sign everything in the presence of witnesses and we’ll be one fabulous party with delicious cake away from being as legally married as we possibly can.
And when my calf heals, I’ll be using my left leg to kick anyone in the face who tells people we’re somehow a “threat” to traditional marriage. Because there’s no use exacerbating an injury right at the top of training season.