I’m at home in the kitchen, talking with our housemate Lisa and Kate. Kate’s distractedly looking in the fridge. P, our oldest, is upstairs in the midst of sorting through all the junk in her room, in preparation for switching rooms.
Adam: (looking at some veggie sausages we hadn’t cooked the night before) “Hey, look, these are literally called ‘Updogs’. That’s pretty clever.”
Lisa: <snorts> I mean, sure, I guess.
Adam: Man, P has got a ton of crap to sort through.
Lisa: Hoo, boy she sure does.
Adam: <eyebrows waggle> I wonder if she’ll find a ‘henway’ in there.
Lisa: <rolls her eyes> Uh huh.
Kate: <pulling her head out of the refrigerator> I’m sorry, were you saying something?
Adam: <straight-faced> I was just saying that P has a bunch of shite all along the shelves in her room, and I’m wondering if she’s going to find a henway in there.
Kate makes a slightly puzzled face and hesitates for a second or two. I’m sure the pause measured by the clock must only have been a few seconds, but in my mind the moment suddenly dilated into a long tunnel in which everything began moving slowly: the moment a batter at the plate can see the pitch slowly moving towards them, the seams of the ball tumbling in the air, the noise of the crowd forgotten, the bat already coming off their shoulder and they know, they know that it’s going to make contact just in the sweet spot.
Kate: What’s a ‘henway’?
Adam: Oh, about 3-4 pounds, usually.
There is a second long pause in the kitchen as the penny drops and Kate begins to make a moue of displeasure, but I am beyond such mortal concerns at this point as I spike the ball in the endzone, air-punch an imaginary punching bag, and take a victory lap around the kitchen. This is throwing a dart and hitting the bullseye or delivering a whopping great takeout with one stone in curling. I am irrepressible for at least a minute or two, and even now, two days later, I am nursing this small triumph as a glowing coal in my heart.
Because I am a dork.