It’s funny what can run through my mind when I’m doing something as mundane as waiting to use the bathroom at a gas station.
All day, my wife had been saying, in a vague, non-committal sort of way, that she might like to take a drive somewhere specific (the location is immaterial), so I had been going about my business waiting to find out if we were actually going. That’s part of how our relationship works; sometimes she decides the whats and the wheres and the whens, and when she does, I make it happen. We travel well together. We know our roles. I drive.
So, anyway, at about 4pm, she says that we should go now. Based on the location and the time of day, a reasonable argument could probably be made that we should just not go, but she has used the word “now,” so she’s made up her mind. We’re still in our jammies when she says this, but in about 10 minutes, we’re out the door.
We always seem to have the most wonderful conversations when we drive together. We reminisced about a play we wrote together a few years ago, when I was teaching Grade 12 Drama, and what a wonderful experience it was, taking the idea, workshopping it in class, taking all the wonderful ideas that the students had, creating this wonderful production, and getting to see it performed.
Then we took an exit off the highway, and I asked her how far we had to go (for this particular excursion, she knows the directions, so I’m relieved of the responsibility of thinking about them). She said she wasn’t exactly sure, so I, espying a Petro-Can, said that I’d have to make a pit stop. She gave that little sigh that she gives when, invariably, my bladder enters into the travelling equation.
And that’s how I ended up standing behind a rather tall girl, waiting to use the unisex restroom at a gas station on New Year’s Day.
(I should pause here to say that my wife and I gamble. We buy lottery tickets, when we think to. I buy ProLine tickets occasionally, to bet on football. My wife gets scratch tickets, when the spirit moves her, and we use them as stocking-stuffers at Christmas. I’ve heard lotteries described as an “idiot tax,” but I, for one, have no qualms about paying taxes, nor have I ever spent money earmarked for some other purpose on a 6-49 or Lotto Max or three-team parlay, so think what you like of me.)
As I was waiting, my mind started to wander. I started to think about how I had asked my wife, just before I’d exited the car, if she wanted anything, and how she’d said no. I thought about how it was funny that I was here, that I hadn’t expected to be here at this particular time, how random the whole thing was. I wondered if it meant anything. A flash: my wife and I buying a lottery ticket last week… her noticing a particular one… it was blue, something with 7s, cost 7 dollars… she likes the number 7… just last night, she said that the year 2013 was a 7, that twenty minus thirteen equals seven… I checked my pocket, and I had 7 dollars… I wonder if they have any of those… My turn to use the restroom.
I headed back to the car. My wife rolled down her window and asked in an amused tone, “Just felt like getting a scratch ticket?” I handed it to her, and said, as I got into the car, “I had no plans to be here today.” She knows me. I didn’t really need to say any more.
The rest of the drive was what it was.
We drove home. I sat down at the computer and put on headphones. As I typed, I could see her out of the corner of my eye, using a Tim Hortons gift card to scratch her ticket.
All day, my wife had been saying, in a vague, non-committal sort of way, that she might like to take a drive somewhere specific (the location is immaterial), so I had been going about my business waiting to find out if we were actually going. That’s part of how our relationship works; sometimes she decides the whats and the wheres and the whens, and when she does, I make it happen. We travel well together. We know our roles. I drive.
So, anyway, at about 4pm, she says that we should go now. Based on the location and the time of day, a reasonable argument could probably be made that we should just not go, but she has used the word “now,” so she’s made up her mind. We’re still in our jammies when she says this, but in about 10 minutes, we’re out the door.
We always seem to have the most wonderful conversations when we drive together. We reminisced about a play we wrote together a few years ago, when I was teaching Grade 12 Drama, and what a wonderful experience it was, taking the idea, workshopping it in class, taking all the wonderful ideas that the students had, creating this wonderful production, and getting to see it performed.
Then we took an exit off the highway, and I asked her how far we had to go (for this particular excursion, she knows the directions, so I’m relieved of the responsibility of thinking about them). She said she wasn’t exactly sure, so I, espying a Petro-Can, said that I’d have to make a pit stop. She gave that little sigh that she gives when, invariably, my bladder enters into the travelling equation.
And that’s how I ended up standing behind a rather tall girl, waiting to use the unisex restroom at a gas station on New Year’s Day.
(I should pause here to say that my wife and I gamble. We buy lottery tickets, when we think to. I buy ProLine tickets occasionally, to bet on football. My wife gets scratch tickets, when the spirit moves her, and we use them as stocking-stuffers at Christmas. I’ve heard lotteries described as an “idiot tax,” but I, for one, have no qualms about paying taxes, nor have I ever spent money earmarked for some other purpose on a 6-49 or Lotto Max or three-team parlay, so think what you like of me.)
As I was waiting, my mind started to wander. I started to think about how I had asked my wife, just before I’d exited the car, if she wanted anything, and how she’d said no. I thought about how it was funny that I was here, that I hadn’t expected to be here at this particular time, how random the whole thing was. I wondered if it meant anything. A flash: my wife and I buying a lottery ticket last week… her noticing a particular one… it was blue, something with 7s, cost 7 dollars… she likes the number 7… just last night, she said that the year 2013 was a 7, that twenty minus thirteen equals seven… I checked my pocket, and I had 7 dollars… I wonder if they have any of those… My turn to use the restroom.
I headed back to the car. My wife rolled down her window and asked in an amused tone, “Just felt like getting a scratch ticket?” I handed it to her, and said, as I got into the car, “I had no plans to be here today.” She knows me. I didn’t really need to say any more.
The rest of the drive was what it was.
We drove home. I sat down at the computer and put on headphones. As I typed, I could see her out of the corner of my eye, using a Tim Hortons gift card to scratch her ticket.
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