My husband, out of nowhere, decided to start running.
“I have to do something”, he said.
I was quiet. I haven’t been running much. I said, “you’ll like it. You will.” In my head: ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohoplease let him love running as much I do.
He’s regimented. I’m ridiculously proud of him. That’s not the point of this post. I am sitting on the couch beside an open window, being assaulted by the overly dramatic voiceover on THE WORLD AFTER PEOPLE as I attempt to compose this post for you. My own voice is thunder, my throat a raspy open wound from yelling at my children to disengage one another. I was an only child.I do not understand how they manage not to kill each other. I expect to look in on them one day and find two tiny mangled little near-corpses, each pointing a finger at the other, gasping “she/he did it!” with their last breath. Their constant, intensely physical battles fill up the space between the booming voiceover, and there is no room left for me to be creative for you.
Oh, that’s all right.
The point is that he listens to a comedy station on Pandora while he runs. Now when we are in the car together, if I lose the race for who can connect their iPhone to the stereo quickest, we listen to comedy Pandora in the car too. I think he wants to share Pandora comedy with me. I think he wants me to laugh.
I thought you should know that, after I heard this bit last weekend, my inner narrative changed. I’m not going to spoil this experience for you. The whole bit is funny. Patton, apparently, has cameras in my house or knows my pharmacist. You should look up his bit on depression. The part relating to my inner narrative begins at 3:00. I’ll let you put it together. I’d just like to thank Patton Oswalt and my husband, who completes me, for making otherwise annoying everyday interactions a little more fun.