Oh, the things you discuss when in the car. Is it just us, or does the mere fact of being in a car create conversational weirdness? Because it’d better not be just us.
We were out and about in the car this weekend when I started the following conversation out of the blue. There was literally no segue into this topic. There had been a moment’s amiable silence where I sat looking at my hands and then, well, this:
ME: Hey, if one of your hands was cut off and thrown into a pile of similarly shaded man hands, could you pick out your own hand?
Now MB is a good sport. He utterly accepts almost any premise. He doesn’t fight it or say, “That is so stupid,” even when it is, like now. He actually considers it. Hahaha.
HE: Well, I probably could. (Looks at hands.) Yeah, I definitely could. I have a scar on this hand and another one on this hand.
ME: Okay. So out of a 50,000-hand pile, you actually think you could find your hand?
Notice how we never address the utter grotesqueness that would be the reality of the pile of hands. No, this is theoretical, you see, and can only exist on a theoretical plane with a pretend pile of hands.
HE: Yeah, I could. I know I could.
ME: Hm. I don’t think you could. I’m not sure I could pick mine out of a pile of women’s hands.
HE: Are you kidding me?
ME: No. I dunno. They’re just small white hands. Lots of women have small white hands. I mean, a 50,000-hand pile, that’s a lot of hands.
(What followed were numerous arguments by My Beloved as to why I could definitely pick out my hands because they’re so this and so that and so the other and, well, he just really likes my hands.)
ME: Well, still, I’m just saying I’m not sure.
HE: How can you not be sure?
Silence, somewhat less amiable now because of a pile of hands.
ME: Okay, then. What about your big toe?
HE: Sigh …..