An Infinite Life

The movie was to begin at 1 PM. We’d had a late breakfast and we decided that we'd have lunch after the movie; my husband fretted, however, that he would be ravenous before the movie ended. He walked up to the counter to buy himself a packet of some Sabra Roasted Red Pepper Hummus. The package came with a hummus cup and a dozen chipped crackers. He stared at it for a few seconds. “You know, when I see this sort of thing, I have an optimization problem,” he said. “I have to estimate how efficiently I must finish both the hummus and the crackers. It’s not easy to work one’s way through it.”

When I hear such observations from intelligent people who have architected big data systems that run airlines, hospitals and universities, my frontal lobes self-destruct.

I looked at him as he dipped a cracker shard in the dip. “But efficiency in the perfect depletion of hummus is pointless. I would rather you deploy all that efficiency into the conduct of your life. For instance, instead of splurging time on Facebook, you might as well redirect it somewhere else.”

He stopped, between the dipping and the munching, to argue with me. “You don’t get it.  This hummus and these crackers are finite.”

“Your life too is finite,” I said. “Who told you otherwise?” I felt like a Vitamix blender mashing cooked garbanzo. “FYI, we don’t all have an infinite number of years to live.”

“No, you don’t get it. I know exactly how much I have of both this hummus and these crackers. Look, I can SEE it as I eat it.”

“But no one knows if they have an hour left or a decade left or three decades left.”

By now my husband was puree. Still, he continued to argue, keeping his head above the sludge of hummus until he had finished every crumb and had spooned the hummus cup so clean that it shone like glass.

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The Spy Who Wows Me

I’ve been pondering my fascination with James Bond. No other gentleman has swept me away with his debonair ways—from my adolescence through the course of my 50-something years.  

There was Bond’s Connery avatar. He had dimples. Within a few minutes of hearing his voice, I was intoxicated. I liked Roger Moore too although by the time he played Bond in “For Your Eyes Only,” I felt he needed to retire and stay home—with his wife only.  

Even though Pierce Brosnan didn’t seem as surefooted and gritty as Connery, he seemed to know his way around Scotland Yard. And he did it with a certain Wall Street gravitas. I loved the way he dusted off his suit after chucking his irksome villain into a nasty printing press. I remember him looking at the audience, right after, and saying: “They'll print anything these days.” 

The only Bond I would never ever have shared even the smallest dinghy with was Timothy Dalton.  I felt Dalton was good enough merely to count change; he should have been recast as a secretary to Moneypenny. 

This brings me to our current Bond, Daniel Craig, who is, by far, the most athletic of them all. He leaves women wanting more and panting for more. He flies between imploding buildings in disturbingly tight Italian suits. The cameras seem to like his rear. I do too. 

When he veers into the Austrian wilderness in his latest hottest wheels, I’m there with him, my hand on his six-pack. When I watch him muck around with Q’s gadgets, once again, I’m to his right, forever his very own faithful “K.”   

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The Senior Moment

The girl at the movie counter blinked when I asked her if I'd get two tickets at the cheaper, matinee price. I couldn't believe the price she quoted. I'm only at the movies to see Daniel Craig's nipples and six-pack. That's about every two years.

"$10.49 for a ticket?" I asked of the girl. "Is that the going price for movies these days?"

"Oh yes, that's the price of a regular ticket," she said, "Unless..." Her voice petered out as she looked to my right.

My husband had appeared by my side at that prescient moment. The next thing she said gave me hope for a future full of exciting discounts. "Unless of course one of you is a senior. 60 and above."

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