We're busy. That's all I can say. They say that the more familiar a routine becomes, the less dense your memory of any one particular recurrence of it becomes. This would explain why moments of intense fear seem as if they're in "slow motion". Our brains are just making more sensory-dense memories, because, hopefully, it's not something we experience very often. It would also explain, and much more relevantly apply to the fact that our days fly by so fast. The same routine, day in, day out, makes for very quick weeks. (Forgive my rambling. I'm a Psychology major. Sue me.)
It was one of these relatively quick evenings that found Claire and I sitting at our table, deeply involved with our evening interests. I was reading a book (It was Sunday. The only day I have for recreational reading.) and she was perusing the posts and updates of various acquaintances on the web. To further set the scene, allow me to describe to you our snacks: Claire had chosen a dish of Nielsen's Frozen Custard-- Chocolate (she highly recommends it) accompanied by an occasional m&m and washed down with a glass of water. I had opted for a handful of raisins, mingled with a carrot or two, followed up with a glass of Great Value V8 equivalent (If you know us well at all, you'll know that these choices are fairly typical).
At some point during our evening repast, Claire nonchalantly picked up my glass of V8 equivalent and moved it to the far end of the table. This was not my first rodeo. I voiced the observation that-- perhaps even the smell was too much for her? She readily agreed. I laughed, and wondered aloud "If you can't stand even the smell of it now, I wonder how it will be down the road when you're expecting?" --Author's note: This is not an announcement. Read on.-- She laughed in turn, replying that perhaps she wouldn't even allow it in the house at that point.
I was shocked, and not a little dismayed. Knowing that her father shares my affinity for the stuff, albeit at a lesser potency, I interjected that he and I would, of necessity, become drinking buddies. Oh, cruel world, that so strongly rejects a man's drink, that he must pursue the opportunity to indulge outside of the comfort of his own home. And what, when I came home late at night, the distinctive scent of that elixir on my breath? What then?! Would she put me out? Would she bar my entry to my own domain? Upon raising these concerns to her, she merely smiled, in her winning way, and said something pseudo-comforting, devoid of even the inkling of backing down. Alas. A man must choose his battles, and choose them well. Oh cursed day, that saw me possessed with a vice of V8 (equivalent).