Tuesday, August 11, 2009

What I Don’t Tell My Husband

By the time lunch is over, the freezer had firmed up the ice-cream which actually becomes the delightful surprise it was meant to be.

At three that afternoon Rina and I decide it’s time to call it a day. Volunteers generally aren’t required to do long days. I wonder where I put my keys. They aren’t in my pocket or with my sandals (I like to volunteer bare-foot). Maybe I left them in the van.

The puddle of milky ice-cream on the roof of the van and a pattern of rivulets down the side are baked into lumpy white goop.

When I open the sticking door I discover the key in the ignition where I had left it. But, the joy of discovering a lost item evaporates when I detect the soft purr of an engine. This engine must have been running at least three hours. I check the gas gauge which is down a fraction—my donation to the hole in the ozone layer. What is my net community contribution for the day?

When I get home I don’t mention the running van to my husband. You see these are the sort of experiences Marty never lives firsthand. He gets them vicariously.

So I only tell him about the forgotten lunch, the white goop, and the sticking door—enough for one day. I don’t want him to think I’m a scatterbrain.

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