Very few things in this life ruffle Brad's feathers. He is generally even tempered, well mannered, and hardly utters a negative word about, well, anything.
But he LOATHES the wind.
So when Mother Nature unleashed 80 mph winds in our neck of the woods the other night, he was one miserable man.
We have a deck off of our bedroom, a deck that is nicely fenced in with a beautiful wrought iron railing. A beautiful wrought iron railing that whistles and howls as the wind passes through it.
I sleep on the side of the bed AWAY from the railing.
And while I happily would have given up my spot for the Rizz, I knew he would never last upstairs with me. When the wind gets howling, he snuggles up to me for a quick minute and then makes his way downstairs to the guest room, away from the railing. Away from the wind.
When his alarm went off the next morning, I went looking for my husband. As I came down the stairs, I was surprised to see that the couch looked like it had been to battle with some angry animal. A raccoon perhaps? I hear they are especially vicious. As I rounded the corner, I found this:
Yeah, that would be my husband sleeping in our hallway with his head in the bathroom downstairs. He had shut the guest room door, curled up with the door jam, and tried (unsuccessfully) to get some sleep. The overhead fan in the bathroom was on in hopes of drowning out the noise but none of it seemed to work.
I firmly believe that Brad could tolerate most of the nasty things in life. Eating grubs and worms to stay alive? No problem. Going for weeks on end without bathing? Done deal. But having to stay somewhere were the wind screamed by, where railings abound and having nothing to drown out the sound? Welcome to Brad's personal hell.
This is what desperation looks like. Isn't it fantastic?