It Was Only an Appetizer

We wandered with purpose. However, the purpose wasn't always noble, and it wasn't always physical wandering. My feet wandered. My mind wandered. But, they wandered with purpose.

This evening, we wandered in the car. We went with friends to meet up with other friends for dinner. Three of the six of us for dinner were old friends with a zillion mutual connections. The remaining three of us would smile and give up on trying to be heard over the television and patron buzz of the restaurant.

And then Old Jiminy was in my ear, "You won't be heard, and you won't hear anything either. You know you're going to keep asking people to repeat themselves...give yourself a break."

And, you know how it's going to go once you begin your inner dialogue with Old Jiminy.

I'm such a soft touch, I am ready to roll over and have someone scratch my belly, I say (totally in my head because talking to imaginary friends as an adult is generally frowned upon), "I know. It's going to be painful. We should have chosen somewhere quieter...but the reviews for the pizza at this place are so good..."

Old Jiminy counters, "You know the service will be slow. Good food always takes extra time."

"It's PIZZA--damn good pizza. I'm going to the loud, slow place, and sit quietly in the hope no one will want to talk to me or follow a conversation beyond, 'How's your food?'"

Jiminy smirks, knowing my commitment to the pizza, and says, "Don't forget the little appetizer you left on the dresser. You'll have a better night." Old Jiminy was right. There was a lone gummy tucked under a receipt for tampons and a pregnancy test. Then my ADD went into hyperdrive. Tampons AND a pregnancy test...how ironic is that? Be prepared for a shock of a lifetime or a regular monthly occurrence which is shock at what a fucking mess it is.

Old Jiminy is tugging at my ear, and in a derisive tone he says, "Look, moron. Forget about the receipt. You are a dumb-dumb. Pick up the little candy."

"Oh, yeah, right! Thanks. This will be helpful. Great suggestion."

And Old Jiminy was right on all counts. At one point, the conversation turns to me, because sometimes being quiet is louder than all the banter of no consequence. I have no idea what my husband's friend is asking me, but I answer with the most top of mind thought, "You are never going to believe what I found today. I'm such an idiot for not throwing it away anyway. You know what it was? It was a receipt, and I had bought tampons AND pregnancy tests. I bet if I kept looking I'd find receipts for ovulation predictors in bulk. I mean I want to nail the fertile window when it's time. So far we have gone twelve months without hitting it. I'm starting to think the tests or defective; or maybe it's my ovaries. There's so much going on inside the female body. Sometimes I wish I had a window to see what's going on because I do not like surprises. I do not like secrets."

They all stare at me and start laughing because I am just that funny. My husband says, "Hahaha. I never know what's going to come out of her mouth." I am officially absolved of any future conversational contributions. I'm only ha-ha funny, not guffaw funny? And then, my mind...gah...wanders with a purpose only I know, but I might have forgotten. I could go in a math direction or...fuck...there's another direction I should remember, and it involves my husband. No matter. No time to waste.

My mind goes in the math direction to determine how many pieces of every pizza will be left, and I wonder if I'll get to hold the leftover box in the car, and if anyone will realize I'm eating the leftovers before we get home, and I don't consider them leftovers because the food is still warm from the restaurant. And, of course, on everyone's mind is, 'Where are the boxes?' because the service is so slow the restaurant is starting to go through its closing procedure, and I swear we arrived well before this establishment was scheduled to close.

And then dinner is over because our server is stacking barstools on the bar right next to us. He has also begun mopping (even though we're still there and we haven't received our bills--such strange service). The mystery in my mind is solved: Everyone gets a take home box (problem averted!), and Old Jiminy wakes up suddenly whispering loudly, "Hold on to the box with all your might, and good behavior will feed your munchies in T-minus 20 minutes." We scatter to our vehicles.

In the car, my husband says, "You seemed off tonight. Are you okay?"

"I have a little secret." I take a deep breath and sigh, mentally giving myself a loving pat on the back and encouragement for sharing something so idiotic. I mean, I'm willing to admit getting stoned for dinner isn't the smartest thing I ever did, but it made the night so easy. Ah, Kevin is staring at me like he's thinking of calling 9-1-1. I turn off the inner dialogues and monologues and state, "I don't think it was meant to be a secret, but when I didn't tell anyone, it became a secret."

"Sweetheart, I am not following you," he says.

"Ah...my love," I say. "Let's play charades," and I take a slice of pizza out of the box, and go at the thing like my mom does when she's hunting for the bargain on the electric griddles at Kohl's on the day after Thanksgiving. Heck, maybe I'm attacking this pizza like a zombie going after a living neighbor. He has to get this on the first try. I am doing some first-rate acting and charading.

"Oohhh. You're baked. Didn't need to keep it a secret."

"Right, but, gahhh...I hate to say this," and I give a huge shoulder shrug and a very loud sigh. "The purpose of my mind's wandering went in a math way instead of in a tell-Kevin-I-had-an-ancient-gummy-before-we-left-for-dinner way, and I never circled back," I say, and I am sheepish in owning my unintended secret, and I am an idiot if I am nothing else tonight. "Do you want some of this pizza? I cannot possibly eat all of this tonight. I feel committed and hate to leave even a morsel of a slice behind. It's just SO good."

And Kevin, my sweet, crazy, ever-patient guy says, "Of course you can't eat all that pizza, but I'll wrap it up for tomorrow." I know I'm throwing some major bottom lip, but he continues wrapping up my leftovers(!) undaunted.

"Hey, uh, honey, do you think anyone else could tell I was in an altered state? I hope they think I'm just deaf and say whatever comes to mind. Can you do me a solid and tell them I'm trying out comedy? Don't tell them about the little appetizer."

"Huh. Are you shaming yourself?" my sweet Kevin asks.

"Maybe," I say, and that's all I have to say, and I go through the motions of retiring. The day is done.

Old Jiminy whispers as I begin to drift, "Hey, dummy, it was a secret. It was under that receipt--hidden and waiting for such an event as this evening." He pauses and after a sigh (so many sighs all of a sudden), he continues, "But you saw things through to happy-sleepy time. Goodnight, little friend." And then lights out, clean slate, and secrets disappear into the ions in the clean air of our home.