works.
But next time you’re in a restaurant, look around. Someone who can’t stand olives will accidentally
get
some, and the person they’re with will say, “I can’t believe you don’t like olives,” and happily eat their olives.
See, a lot of things are that much simpler when you’re a couple. Like ordering food. Couples develop their own strategies.
“Here’s what we do. I got it, I got it—I
got
it.…Here’s the plan.
I’ll
get the chicken, and
you
get the salmon, and that way we’re covered.”
That’s another big plus about being Two instead of One. There are
two
dishes, so if one of you makes a mistake, there’s always Backup Fish.
“I’ll get the chicken, and then, if it stinks, I’ll eat your salmon.… What? If
yours
stinks? Well, then you got a problem, ’cause mine turned out pretty good. Hey, nobody told you to order bad. Live and learn.”
G oing to a movie is easier, too. Couples are good at this because you can split up the responsibilities.
“Honey, I’m gonna park the car, you get out and buy the tickets—I’ll meet you on line.” Everybody has a job.
It’s a military operation, and the two of you are a precision drill team.
“Okay. You get on the ticket
buyers’
line. I will park the car, come around the northwest corner, and get on the ticket
holders’
line. I’m at the ticket holders’, you’re at the ticket buyers’. Now, at nineteen hundred hours, the doors will open, and I’ll have to move out. My regiment’s leaving. If I don’t have tickets in hand, we’re dead. Get me those tickets. Now cover me—I’m going in!”
Of course, this type of expertise doesn’t happen overnight; it takes months and months of Saturday nights to practice. You must each accept that there is a job to bedone and sacrifices to be made. There’s no romance involved; it’s all business. “Tonight we’ll see a movie, tomorrow we’ll kiss. Now get out of the car and go go go go
GO!
”
Couples just starting out don’t know this. Ever see first-date couples at a weekend movie? No. Because they never get in.
They haven’t developed this taste for blood. They’re too busy holding hands, being polite. “Which movie would you rather see? Because if you’d rather see something else … Oh, look—everything seems to be sold out.”
Of course it’s sold out! It’s Saturday, eight o’clock. Separate! Split up! Do your jobs, be nice to each other afterward.
E ven when you get
into
the theater, it’s not over. You have to get seats. Now, again, there’s a science to this.
You walk into the theater, grab the first two seats you see. Doesn’t matter where they are, and you may very well not sit there. But grab them. That’s your fallback position.
Now one of you guards the fallback position, while the other one goes to look for
better
seats. You set out in the jungle with a machete and a map, and periodically throw your gaze back to the fallback position, secure in theknowledge that, at worst, you’ve got two sucky seats in the back waiting for you.
To find better seats, you have to bother other people. You see a guy next to a jacket. “Excuse me, is that seat taken?” You have to ask. Because you don’t know—Is he saving it? Is he dating his clothing? It’s not always clear.
Sometimes you see a jacket
and
a hat—he’s waiting for
two
friends. Once in a while you see a trail of clothing: jacket, hat, shoes, pants, socks, underwear, tie clip, belt—and way down at the end there’s one guy sitting there naked and embarrassed. “Yes, they’re
all
coming back. We’re a group of twelve—I underdressed. I didn’t think this through. Do you mind moving on? Please!”
A nd when you find your seats, it’s
still
not over. One of you has to go back out to get the popcorn. That’s usually my job. I’m happy to do it, but there’s no moment more embarrassing than when you come back into that dark theater and realize you don’t know where you’re sitting.
But next time you’re in a restaurant, look around. Someone who can’t stand olives will accidentally
get
some, and the person they’re with will say, “I can’t believe you don’t like olives,” and happily eat their olives.
See, a lot of things are that much simpler when you’re a couple. Like ordering food. Couples develop their own strategies.
“Here’s what we do. I got it, I got it—I
got
it.…Here’s the plan.
I’ll
get the chicken, and
you
get the salmon, and that way we’re covered.”
That’s another big plus about being Two instead of One. There are
two
dishes, so if one of you makes a mistake, there’s always Backup Fish.
“I’ll get the chicken, and then, if it stinks, I’ll eat your salmon.… What? If
yours
stinks? Well, then you got a problem, ’cause mine turned out pretty good. Hey, nobody told you to order bad. Live and learn.”
G oing to a movie is easier, too. Couples are good at this because you can split up the responsibilities.
“Honey, I’m gonna park the car, you get out and buy the tickets—I’ll meet you on line.” Everybody has a job.
It’s a military operation, and the two of you are a precision drill team.
“Okay. You get on the ticket
buyers’
line. I will park the car, come around the northwest corner, and get on the ticket
holders’
line. I’m at the ticket holders’, you’re at the ticket buyers’. Now, at nineteen hundred hours, the doors will open, and I’ll have to move out. My regiment’s leaving. If I don’t have tickets in hand, we’re dead. Get me those tickets. Now cover me—I’m going in!”
Of course, this type of expertise doesn’t happen overnight; it takes months and months of Saturday nights to practice. You must each accept that there is a job to bedone and sacrifices to be made. There’s no romance involved; it’s all business. “Tonight we’ll see a movie, tomorrow we’ll kiss. Now get out of the car and go go go go
GO!
”
Couples just starting out don’t know this. Ever see first-date couples at a weekend movie? No. Because they never get in.
They haven’t developed this taste for blood. They’re too busy holding hands, being polite. “Which movie would you rather see? Because if you’d rather see something else … Oh, look—everything seems to be sold out.”
Of course it’s sold out! It’s Saturday, eight o’clock. Separate! Split up! Do your jobs, be nice to each other afterward.
E ven when you get
into
the theater, it’s not over. You have to get seats. Now, again, there’s a science to this.
You walk into the theater, grab the first two seats you see. Doesn’t matter where they are, and you may very well not sit there. But grab them. That’s your fallback position.
Now one of you guards the fallback position, while the other one goes to look for
better
seats. You set out in the jungle with a machete and a map, and periodically throw your gaze back to the fallback position, secure in theknowledge that, at worst, you’ve got two sucky seats in the back waiting for you.
To find better seats, you have to bother other people. You see a guy next to a jacket. “Excuse me, is that seat taken?” You have to ask. Because you don’t know—Is he saving it? Is he dating his clothing? It’s not always clear.
Sometimes you see a jacket
and
a hat—he’s waiting for
two
friends. Once in a while you see a trail of clothing: jacket, hat, shoes, pants, socks, underwear, tie clip, belt—and way down at the end there’s one guy sitting there naked and embarrassed. “Yes, they’re
all
coming back. We’re a group of twelve—I underdressed. I didn’t think this through. Do you mind moving on? Please!”
A nd when you find your seats, it’s
still
not over. One of you has to go back out to get the popcorn. That’s usually my job. I’m happy to do it, but there’s no moment more embarrassing than when you come back into that dark theater and realize you don’t know where you’re sitting.
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