Of course one of the treasures of marriage is the opportunity to cohabitate with another and therefore come to know each other’s ways intimately –
The other morning I was headed out for my run. Our son had left for school and Peter was getting ready to head off to work. I had biked at the Y on Monday and was discussing the equivalency of cycling miles to running miles. Peter said he goes by time: distance running in the time spent cycling. I worked out my pace per mile and figured its equivalency was about 6 miles running. Then (a tune Peter has heard oft before) I bemoaned the fact that my pace now was at LEAST 1 minute/mile slower than what it used to be.
“Just call me Clunky,” I said, as I crossed the threshold to head out for my run.
Silence. Then –
“Okay Clunky.” Pause. “Is Clunkers okay, too?”
I turned my head and glared back with gritted teeth, “Clunkers is fine.” Then I shut the door and headed off.
Crossing the street I hear the sweet strains of my husband’s calls: “Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!” One can only shake one’s head and perhaps wave a commensurate farewell as suits the sentiment.
Back home after my run, Peter’s car gone, I enter my silent sanctuary, grab a glass of water and, after changing, sit down to my computer to begin my writing for the day. I fire up my computer and see FULL SCREEN –
CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!
I’m changing my password.