A Very Special Kind of Neurotic

Today, on my way home from work and picking Max up, I completely convinced myself that Clint was dead. That I would come home to his car in the driveway when he should be at work, and rush in to find him still in bed, dead. This after he did not answer his phone or return a single call or text message today. He had to be dead, right? Because if he knew he left his phone at home, he would have come home at lunch and gotten it...and then called me back. I pictured what he would look like, and the phone calls I would have to make and I made myself sick to my stomach with dread and horror. And then found that his car was, in fact, not in the driveway. Clint was nowhere to be seen. And his phone? That was lying in our bed, covered by a pile of clothes, and displaying 15 missed calls. I think only 11 of them were from me...

In my defense, if you knew your wife was this particular kind of nuts, wouldn't YOU call her from work to tell her you left your phone at home so she didn't work herself into an utter panic attack because she hadn't heard from you in the last 8 hours? I thought so.