We’re ordering room service at the hotel because that’s our favorite thing about staying in a hotel. Not that the food is good, because it never is, but there’s something Oscar-Wilde-decadent about ringing the butler to bring a PB&J. My daughters and I had decided on nachos, but first I needed to know if one order would fill our bellies or if we’d need to toss in some onion rings.
So I call the 20-something kid in the kitchen.
“How big are your nachos?” I ask.
And I wait patiently while he laughs.
“Well, my nachos…” he laughs some more. And I think I ought to be given an honorary sainthood for my forbearance. Oh, lots of things sprang to mind, things I would not have hesitated to say 20 years ago. Now, however, I applaud myself for keeping my mouth shut while he gets over his big bad self.
I look at my husband and wonder that such a terrific person comes from the same hormone pool as boys who fling jock straps at each other. I’m amazed that the same chemical makeup that produced Jim Carey has produced my spouse. And I wonder, too, what secret manly traits lurk in his depths. Someday, they may come out. He may start laughing at statements like, “Do you know where the hose is?”
Oops, too late. He read this over my shoulder and laughed. “Always count on the consistency of 12 year old men,” he said. And then he turned on the TV and made the “turning on the TV” noise that men everywhere hear as a mating call.
Sainthood, here I come.