Nice Throw, Clemens

There are a zillion reasons I married my wife. She’s funny, smart, attractive, fiery, stubborn, a hell of a dancer. Athletic? Eh, not so much. Oh, she’ll argue that she once made three consecutive free throws for her church basketball team when she was 12 years old because the other coach got a technical foul for complaining that she was playing with her Bunsen burner and chemistry set too close to the court, but I think it’s safe to say she’s not going to be the one teaching our son how to kick a soccer ball. (That’s because we don’t want him playing a lame sport. ZING!)
 

But seriously, to illustrate just how nonathletic she is, the other day after a nice afternoon family walk, I’m on the front steps of the house, 15 FEET AWAY FROM HER, when I ask her to toss me the keys so I can let the dogs in and then come back and help her with our son. She proceeds to wind up and throw the keys exactly—and I swear I am not being the least bit melodramatic here—as if she was being electrocuted while riding a mechanical bull.
 

So did the keys land at my feet? Hit me in the face? Sail into the bushes?
 

If you said land on the roof, then congratulations, you are correct. Or the locksmith who ended up coming to let us back into our house.