My wife’s idea of a marital aid is an electric winch. That is how old we are getting.
“How can a winch be a marital aid?” I ask.
Well, if we had to carry all this stuff up the hill, we’d get tired and eventually bicker and fight. If we fought, I’d walk away and leave you to do it all, you bastard! You’d be furious and we wouldn’t talk for a long time. You are so immature that way. So the winch is a marital aid. We are still talking, thanks to that winch.”
Of course you are. You know that. Now don’t be silly as well.”
“I’m not talking to you!”
Sal and I have known each other 45 years. Circular illogic is the cornerstone of our relationship. Well, that and sex, of course. These days there is slightly more emphasis on circular illogic. Mind you, when you think about it, sex and circular illogic have a lot in common.
When I first met her and asked her out to lunch the next day, she answered, “Of course. I’d love to!”
“Great! What’s your phone number. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“I am not giving you my phone number.”
“You are the type of guy who gets phone numbers and doesn’t call.”
“How will you know that for sure unless you give me the phone number and I then don’t call?”
“I already know for sure.”
“But you’ll go for lunch?”
“Of course. I said so, didn’t I?”
Getting past that weird-as-hell little challenge was a portent of things to come. (Her girlfriend eventually gave me the number and, to be fair, I didn’t call. I watched a football game on TV instead and, when it was over and I did call, she just was just going out the door and barely heard the phone ring. It was that close).
Forty-five years of living with Lucy.