Should I Even Ask?

I picked C-Man up from work on Friday so we could have dinner and see G.I. Joe (review forthcoming on Heroine Content, obviously). As we were leaving his office after an interminable length of time that I spent pretending I wasn’t bored while waiting for him to get done working, he said “Do you mind driving?”

Turns out homeboy’s coworker had crunched two of his fingers in her car window earlier that day.

I’ve been all “Oh ouch, poor you” and “do you need some ibuprofen?” and “No really, let me take Boy Detective outside in the 100+ degree heat for an hour to play so you can ice it” even though what I’ve been thinking is often more along the lines of “You haven’t even gotten your shoulder fixed and now you busted your hand? Oh great, another thing to make my life more difficult.” Because the most important thing about my husband’s pain and suffering is how it inconveniences me. (Note to self about personal growth: get some.)

It was only tonight that I realized I don’t know how it happened. What kind of programmer hijinx involve sticking your hand in an open car window? Do I want to know? How far was it open? Why didn’t he notice the window was closing? Does this coworker have some kind of grudge against C-Man that I don’t know about? Why was he out in someone’s car anyway since he took lunch with him that morning?

And why didn’t I think of any of these things yesterday?