In the contest to see who can drive the other crazy – quicker – we’re in a dead heat. I may have taken the lead when I asked my husband to alphabetize the spice rack.
But in the contest for living dangerously, he’s ahead.
When we were first dating, my husband recounted several incidents when he ran out of gas. For a bit of context, he was 50 when we started dating and these stories were from his 49th year on earth. I was shocked. One time, maybe, but multiple times? How does that happen? He explained that the light that signals that his gas tank was running low had malfunctioned. That gauge said he had 35 miles to empty, but he thinks it must have been wrong. Hmm, how did he know this? And when he had his car serviced, did they check that gauge? “What?” he said. “What service?” I lost my head with that line of questioning.
He asked me to think of my own experience. What experience? I’ve never driven with a light on that says you have 35 miles to go. Now it was his turn to be shocked. Why not live a little and take a risk, he chided? The teasing was relentless, and so I relented.
On our next drive in the country, I let the low gas light come on. My hands were sweating. But instead of the number of miles to empty going down as we drove, they went up. Maybe my husband was right? Maybe the gauge on my car had malfunctioned, too? The more we drove, the more miles until empty. We started on 35 miles to empty, but after driving 15 more miles we had 55 miles to empty. My husband found this funny; I was alarmed and sweating profusely. We were in a rural area far from a gas station. I asked, “Are you going to jog to the nearest station if we run out of gas?” His reply, “You need the exercise more than I do, with the all the ice cream you’ve been eating lately.”
I recounted this to my mechanic who services my car every 7,500 miles. “You must have been on hills?” Why yes, we were. “The computer that calibrates the number of miles can be greatly affected by elevation. Did it stay consistent on flat roads?” Why yes, it did.
And just for the record, I’ve never broken any bones or had any surgeries. We don’t have enough space and time to chronicle his broken bones and surgeries – and don’t get me started on the time he asked the surgeon if he could be awake to watch his knee surgery. And did I mention bites from black widow spiders and his close encounters with water moccasins?
Which brings me to another kind of running on empty – my goal this summer was to eat more ice cream. After months of isolation, I wanted to hit every local dairy and ice cream shop and eat until my tongue and lips were so cold I could not form consonants. (Thit! I mithed that.)
Whenever we stop for ice cream, as soon as we get home he weighs himself – he wants to maintain his high school wresting weight at 81 years of age.
Last week, in pursuit of my goal, I stopped at a local dairy and bought two scoops: sour cherry and pistachio. He informed me that he doesn’t like nuts – irony is alive and well.