Every so often I will become extremely playful. Typically this is after dinnertime when I have had a riveting conversation with Lovey Loverpants about parts of speech or bipartisanship or bike spokes. We will finish putting dishes away, and suddenly, like the climactic surge of a Mentos commercial, I will become extremely and almost violently playful. Like an American Gladiator.

If I were not myself, I might find this kind of annoying.

Because I am annoying when I try to challenge Lovey to a game of chicken, or try to see if I can lift him while he lies on my back and I do a push-up. Because I can barely do a girl push-up without bearing additional weight. So clearly stack an Asian and a vanilla wafer on top and I should be able to levitate that, NO problem. I become very loud and hissy, and then I will laugh through gritted teeth as my husband, who is a good 2 heads taller than I, indulges my latest fit of fake rage. I am a child off Ritalin swinging her wild temper like a golf club.

Eventually, I will tire and Lovey will do the thing that I like best, which is to restrain me like an inmate at an asylum, my arms immobilized, my legs bent, but unable to pull myself back up. He is very quick with the restraint since he has been trained in a residential treatment center, and plus he is stronger than I by at least a few small boy scout packs. He will laugh and talk to me like I am really going to face some consequences now, bringing him to restrain me on the floor against my will. And there I will want to stay, wriggling in vain, clucking my heels against the floor and protesting against this unjust treatment in my own home.

Many women probably dream of being a great and seductive belly-dancer to seduce their husbands, or summitting a fearsome mountain to show their husbands their strength. Every so often, I am content to be wholly contained by my husband as he coos at me as though I am a complete lunatic.