Playing House

Though my readership seems to have increased, I have lost some followers with my partisan rants about tomorrow's presidential election. I am so glad the election is finally here and we can stop watching billions being squandered on soul-crushing campaign ads while the 24/7 news cycle spins razor's edge cliffhanger scenarios in the interest of higher ratings, as my wise friend Glenn suggests.

Whatever happens tomorrow, I'll won't whine. If my candidate loses I'll be depressed as heck, but I'll be a big girl. Still, I think my candidate is going to win.

Speaking of big girls, my favorite moment of the weekend is related to that. My husband and I shared one of those lovely Sunday night pot luck gatherings with friends, all of us crowded around a table, shoulder to shoulder, with a lack of personal space only possible among people who are deeply familiar with one another.

My love and I, both people of some girth, chose chairs next to one another at one end of the table. We were pressed against each other the way people of a certain size (us) get squooshed together when seated in adjacent seats on airplanes. Janice, our host, said, "You two don't need to be so crowded"—and to my husband—"Why don't you sit here at the head of the table, where you have more space?"

"I'm okay," my man said. "I don't mind being cozy. We kind of like each other. You see, we've been playing house."

Can I tell you I just loved his response? I swear, with the kids away at college, that's how it feels sometimes: Like we're two footloose kids, rambling around together, playhouse buddies, laid back and thick as thieves.