Did you know it rains DIAMONDS?
It's all in your perspective, don't you think?
I am not a gal who is much for learning how things work, although I did once briefly consider taking a car mechanics course when my little green Ford Cortina persisted in stalling at red lights and the smug Neanderthals at the dealership insisted nothing was awry.
As Chris the computer guy has heard from me more than once, I don’t care WHY this particular program has given up the ghost or WHY that one is misbehaving; I just want them to work as Steve Jobs intended them to. Similarly, I am not the slightest bit interested in WHY there are clouds in the sky; I just want to admire their loveliness or do a dance so it won’t rain next Saturday. Nor am I the slightest bit interested in what makes the lights turn on when I flip a switch, or a gas burner ignite when I turn the knob, or an airplane fly once the flight attendants buckle up. As far as I am concerned, it’s all magic, and it can stay that way.
For obvious reasons, this kind of primitive, willful attitude baffles my husband, Dr. Astrophysicist. Oh, he can tolerate my self-induced dummy-dom okay if the Thing-That-Goes is a piece of household equipment, an automobile, chemical goop percolating in a test tube, or the tornado mowing down somewhere Oklahoman. It’s when it comes to things celestial that my insistence on remaining ignorant stretches his forbearance to the breaking point.
A typical exchange….
Me: Oh, look at the stars!
Him: That’s Jupiter – see it?? No, you’re looking the wrong way. Why are you looking over there?
Me: Maybe they’re not stars. Maybe they’re angels dancing.
Him: Well, of course, they’re stars.
Me: Says who?
Him: Every astronomer since the ancient Babylonians and Egyptians. (An explanation utilizing words and terms like gamma rays, gravitational collapse, radiation, mass, fusion, hydrogen, pressures and helium ensues)
Me: There are so many stars tonight. Maybe the angels are having a special party. A convention of angels!
Him: I just explained Why It’s Not Angels.
Me: Sure, yeah, I know. But wouldn’t it be fun if two angel-stars swooped down anyway and carried us off, kind of like Superman with Lois Lane? Why are you looking at me like that?
Him: Nothing…You hate flying.
Me: This would be different.
Him: You won’t go up in a small plane with a licensed pilot, but you’ll zip around the universe with angels?
Me: Angels’ parts don’t malfunction. They can’t crash.
Him: Maybe that’s what falling stars are. (Gotcha!)
Me: You don’t believe that. (Do you?)
Him: You’re the one insisting stars are angels.
Me: Okay, say they are stars. Why don’t they fall? What keeps them up there? Why hasn’t one dropped and conked me on the head like that bird poop in Montreal?
Him: (snorting) Stars can’t fall on us.
Me: Well, they’re not stuck to heaven like post it notes on the frig – are they?
It probably won’t surprise you to learn that, the longer we have been married, the fewer of these exchanges we’ve engaged in.