Let me set the scene for you.
It's a beautiful, fall morning. I had that (frequent) urge to get outside and move, walk/run, do something to get my lazy self moving. More importantly however, I had that rare conviction to actually do it.
I imagined myself working up a sweat, enjoying the fall foliage, and heading back to my house the picture of health and wellness. As you probably know by now, I do posses a superb imagination.
I turned to my husband and asked if he knew what the weather was supposed to be for the day. This, of course, is a crucial question because it impacts my workout wardrobe.
"It's going to be 60 degrees in Texas," he responded, "which is really crazy because it's normally eight-degrees this time of year."
"Texas?" I asked.
"The A & M game. Sixty degrees today. Crazy, right?"
Now would be a good time to remind you, darling reader, that we live just north of Boston.
"And this you know because…?" I trailed off.
"It's a big game," he dead-panned wearing that male expression (you've all seen it) that's a cross between utter disbelief (that I, his wife, wouldn’t know such an important fact) but is really more of what I've come to recognize is likely to be a really important thought crossing his mind like, I wonder what's in the fridge.
"Okay, thanks for the update, Mr. Roker, but I was just trying to find out what it was like outside, here. In Andover."
"Oh," he said, "You can look in your iPad and find out. I only know Texas."
I swear I'm not making this up.
More curious (should it have been concerned?) in that Jane Goodall researching-the-chimps-kind-of-way, I asked, "How is this information top of mind for you and stored up there in your brain?”
"Don't know. Just remembered it. It’s is an important game for Texas."
Oh, so many thoughts went through my mind at that moment. I don't need to tell all of them to you. You've been there. You know what I'm saying. You're nodding your head right now.
I looked at my wonderful husband, squarely in the eyes and with all the loving kindness I could muster, declared myself: "I’m now going to quote Meg Ryan," which is my go-to warning shot/prelude when making a major declaration about a) the problem (as if there's only one) with men, b) the reasons why men and women will never understand each other, and c) my absolutely deeply-held conviction that my idol, the late screenwriter and author Nora Ephron understood all of these things better than anyone else ever did, could, or will.
Bracing for what he knew would be a quote from When Harry Met Sally, he gave me his amused "Go on, let me have it" nod and I said:
"It's amazing," I said "you look like a normal person but actually you're the Angel of Death."
And that, my friends, was officially, the end of that.
BTW, it was a lovely 55 degrees in Andover that day. Translation: mid-rise yoga pants, long-sleeve tissue tee over thin cotton tank.
Now was that so difficult?