didn’t even chew yet; that’s like nineteen shrimps.
I’ve
got three hundred snow peas and a dead noodle.… I can’t even get a fork in there. The man is like a windmill.”
A nd when couples go out socially, they’re no longer people. They’re
couples.
And couples don’t talk like regular people.
They become
teams.
Little tag-team storytelling teams. She starts,
you
finish, you start,
she
finishes. You correct each other, interrupt each other, and no one knows exactly who they should be listening to.
Ever been out with four or five couples? It’s like the Conversation Olympics. Whatever subjects come up, every couple has to compete.
“We had an experience like that, too.” Then you step forward and tell
your
piteous little tale, and the conversation moves clockwise around the table, everybody telling
their
version of essentially the same story.
By the time it gets to the semifinals, it gets very tough.
Your
story has to be more interesting than the last couple. If Couple Number One lost their luggage in Mexico, Couple Two lost their luggage
and their passports.
Couple Three has to beat that. “We lost our luggage, our passports, and our …
house
was stolen, too. Andour children! The whole family, everything. We called American Express and we got new kids the next day … two girls and a boy, so it worked out well—but for a while there, we were
quite
alarmed.”
S ometimes your team
has
no story. You have to huddle frantically with your partner: “Honey, Honey, quick—do we have anything like that? Airport, luggage—anything? Remember you lost that comb that time? Is there anything in that? … Come on, hurry up, we’re next. THINK, man, THINK. Okay, we’re up.” Big smile. “Yes, we had the same thing happen to us … this was three years ago.…” And you’re off and running.
Sometimes you’re in the middle of your story, you look around the table, and you realize—nobody’s listening. They’re talking amongst themselves, paying the check … And you’re thinking, “Am I the dullest person in the world? What happened here?”
And then, the saddest moment in the world: You look at your wife and discover
she’s
listening. She, who’s heard the story a thousand times. But, God bless her, she doesn’t have the heart to let your story plummet like a boulder. So she sits there pretending she’s interested. And what’s even more pathetic is
you continue to tell her.
You don’t want to stop.
“You know,
we
once … anyone listening? Youknow,
we
once had a thing … in Florida, actually … We were in Florida”—and you turn right to your wife—“Honey, remember in Florida, that time? The cabdriver at the airport …”
And finally she leans in discreetly and says, “You can stop now, nobody’s listening. You don’t have to amuse me.”
“But I was trying to amuse
them
”
“But they’re not listening.”
“I listened to
their
stories.”
“I know, honey, I know …”
W hen you’ve been together long enough, you know each other’s stories. That’s why a lot of times you see couples in their eighties sitting and not talking: They’ve heard everything. They know. “When we got married, I told you everything I had done up to that point. And since then,
you were there.
What could I possibly tell you? … What happens if we
don’t
talk? Can we try that? Could we just
read?
And if we read something interesting, we’ll talk about that. Whaddya say?”
People who get married later in life have that great advantage. “Hey, baby, I’ve got stories till we die. Things I haven’t even
hinted
to you about. Did you know I went to junior high school with FDR? That’s right. Sweet fella. I was going to tell you later.”
Tonight
We’ll See
a Movie,
Tomorrow
We’ll Kiss
I t just so happens that in life there are the exact same number of people who like olives as people who don’t. And they usually end up together.
No one knows how this
I’ve
got three hundred snow peas and a dead noodle.… I can’t even get a fork in there. The man is like a windmill.”
A nd when couples go out socially, they’re no longer people. They’re
couples.
And couples don’t talk like regular people.
They become
teams.
Little tag-team storytelling teams. She starts,
you
finish, you start,
she
finishes. You correct each other, interrupt each other, and no one knows exactly who they should be listening to.
Ever been out with four or five couples? It’s like the Conversation Olympics. Whatever subjects come up, every couple has to compete.
“We had an experience like that, too.” Then you step forward and tell
your
piteous little tale, and the conversation moves clockwise around the table, everybody telling
their
version of essentially the same story.
By the time it gets to the semifinals, it gets very tough.
Your
story has to be more interesting than the last couple. If Couple Number One lost their luggage in Mexico, Couple Two lost their luggage
and their passports.
Couple Three has to beat that. “We lost our luggage, our passports, and our …
house
was stolen, too. Andour children! The whole family, everything. We called American Express and we got new kids the next day … two girls and a boy, so it worked out well—but for a while there, we were
quite
alarmed.”
S ometimes your team
has
no story. You have to huddle frantically with your partner: “Honey, Honey, quick—do we have anything like that? Airport, luggage—anything? Remember you lost that comb that time? Is there anything in that? … Come on, hurry up, we’re next. THINK, man, THINK. Okay, we’re up.” Big smile. “Yes, we had the same thing happen to us … this was three years ago.…” And you’re off and running.
Sometimes you’re in the middle of your story, you look around the table, and you realize—nobody’s listening. They’re talking amongst themselves, paying the check … And you’re thinking, “Am I the dullest person in the world? What happened here?”
And then, the saddest moment in the world: You look at your wife and discover
she’s
listening. She, who’s heard the story a thousand times. But, God bless her, she doesn’t have the heart to let your story plummet like a boulder. So she sits there pretending she’s interested. And what’s even more pathetic is
you continue to tell her.
You don’t want to stop.
“You know,
we
once … anyone listening? Youknow,
we
once had a thing … in Florida, actually … We were in Florida”—and you turn right to your wife—“Honey, remember in Florida, that time? The cabdriver at the airport …”
And finally she leans in discreetly and says, “You can stop now, nobody’s listening. You don’t have to amuse me.”
“But I was trying to amuse
them
”
“But they’re not listening.”
“I listened to
their
stories.”
“I know, honey, I know …”
W hen you’ve been together long enough, you know each other’s stories. That’s why a lot of times you see couples in their eighties sitting and not talking: They’ve heard everything. They know. “When we got married, I told you everything I had done up to that point. And since then,
you were there.
What could I possibly tell you? … What happens if we
don’t
talk? Can we try that? Could we just
read?
And if we read something interesting, we’ll talk about that. Whaddya say?”
People who get married later in life have that great advantage. “Hey, baby, I’ve got stories till we die. Things I haven’t even
hinted
to you about. Did you know I went to junior high school with FDR? That’s right. Sweet fella. I was going to tell you later.”
Tonight
We’ll See
a Movie,
Tomorrow
We’ll Kiss
I t just so happens that in life there are the exact same number of people who like olives as people who don’t. And they usually end up together.
No one knows how this
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