A conversation, held as Lisa and I were preparing to go to her work team’s outing last night:
Lisa: It should be informal.
Ron: Sounds good.
Lisa: I think I’m going to wear jeans.
Ron: < does not reply for too long >
Lisa: Or not. I don’t know what I’ll wear.
Ron: Don’t worry about me. I’ll be the good trophy husband.
Lisa: That’s right. And you’d better look < darn > good, too.
Ron: < holds hands out in the universal sign for "hey, this is me we're talkin' about here!" >
Lisa: < remains silent for a moment, then > Ahhhhhh!!! Toe cramp! Toe cramp! Toe cramp!
Sure, when I ran over there, she really was getting a toe cramp, but on further review I have to wonder if she’s, like, this toe magician–a sorceress of “this little piggy went to market,” a weaver of such podiatal wizardry she can call these things up on a moment’s notice. What other answer is there for the fact that the first time she gets a toe cramp in months is when she’s faced with this kind of moment, eh?