People are funny. No, really. Just so very curious.
My husband went out for his usual bike ride. He, as I've said before, is a dalmation. He needs intense daily exercise or he goes nuts, as do those around him.
It's a 30 mile loop that he does in less than two hours. I was home and noticed he was overdue. Must be telepathy, because I shortly thereafter got a call from him.
"Can you pick me up? I got a flat," he asked. "I'm just down the street by the school."
"You're just three blocks away. I hate driving your car," I whined. These aren't even New York city length blocks. They're little suburban blocks, very short.
He cajoled, "I don't feel like walking home."
Really, Claus? You bike 30 miles and you can't walk three blocks? You can spontaneously enter a triathlon at the last minute and still place first in your age group, and you can't walk three blocks?
Curses, his car. It's so big and it has all these buttons that I don't know what to press. I just drove off and left the dang garage door open. I was all panicky about driving a huge SUV.
He was at the school, as promised. I pulled into the parking lot so he could load up his bike. All these stupid buttons; I didn't even know which one to pop the trunk.
When we arrived home he saw the garage open. I explained that, in case he didn't figure this out over the last 16 years, I'm a Luddite and I have no idea which button is for the garage. Stupid fancy cars nowadays.
"This one - haven't you seen me do this a thousand times by now?" he chuckled.
"I don't pay attention to you," I reminded, shrugging on the role of the old married couple like a tattered shawl.
"Thanks," he frowned.
"What?" I said.