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We are three adults living in a polyamorous triad family. The content here is intended for an adult audience. If you are not an adult, please leave now.
The loading guys helped us get it into the car at the store, and I scrunched into the itty bitty space in the passenger seat so that Tom could drive us home. We put the car in the garage and figured we would wrestle it all into the house on Saturday.
The biggest of the MONSTER boxes felt like it weighed about 500 pounds. We rolled our sturdy little handcart out to the driveway and began trying to pull / drag / tug the monster box out of the back end of the car. Luckily, there was a handy-dandy handle place right in the end of the box. We grunted and pushed and pulled, but just couldn't budge the thing. Finally, I grabbed hold of the handle in the end of the box with both hands, and gave it a determined tug.
The Monster box? It hardly moved. The little cardboard handgrip place tore completely apart, and I went tumbling backwards, swan wings flailing, and landed with an impressive thump on the concrete driveway. I smacked my hip and my elbow pretty soundly, but fortunately, I managed not to hit my head. I sprawled there for a few minutes, trying to catch my breath and gather my wits. I think I scared Tom half to death.
No serious damage. I spent the afternoon awash in the alluring aroma of Icy Hot, and completely whacked out of my mind on muscle relaxants. When we woke up on Sunday morning, I was surprised to find that I really didn't feel too bad. No ugly bruises, and only some minimal stiffness.
He wondered if it was maybe not a good idea to spank me under the circumstances -- maybe it would cause my muscles to spasm (ya think?). So... We got up. We had breakfast. We watched football. It was a pleasant day, and a nice end to the long holiday weekend. I felt disappointed about the not spanking, but also felt loved and cared for. Funny how that works...