Happy St. Patty's

The weekend before St. Patty's day, the new boyfriend and I took one of those awesome relationship steps when he started dropping the "L-word." I was on Cloud 9 the next three days until actual St. Patrick's Day, Wednesday, when Stretch called me from the ER to tell me he that he was in an accident on his bike.

Now, when you're with an athlete -- and I suppose this is true of all athletes, but it is definitely true of Ironmen -- you have to expect the occasional accident or injury, but my boyfriend is strong and smart and I trust him to take care of himself. Of course, that doesn't do much good when he's cycling down the road, minding his own business, and a pickup truck hits him from behind.

Dear Guy in the Truck: Why are you trying to ruin everything?

He assured me that he was fine, despite a few flesh wounds; I think that was the Morphine talking because when I got there the next day, he was bandaged up like a mummy and in significant pain. We spent the rest of the weekend cleaning wounds and changing bandages. He's totally worth it, but it wasn't very much fun for either of us, so for my sake, please watch where you're driving.