When I was in college, I used to get the funniest looks from men when I met them in a bar. Generally it was because I'd have had a couple of drinks and when they'd try to pick me up I'd hit them with something like "Have you ever thought about the amount of time it took to distill this liquor before we could drink it?"
I created more than one crease in the foreheads of unsuspecting men. QUITE the man magnet, I was.
Frankly, once I was out of college and working, the engineers at Texas Instruments dug me. THEY knew how liquor was distilled and didn't haunt bars looking for women who didn't know the answer to that question.
Problem was, they had NO IDEA how to deal with the likes of me when they finally asked me out. Poor, socially-inept engineers.
That's why I married Mike. As a statistician he knew, within a degree of certainty on a bell curve that, whatever weirdness was going on in that moment, it was within one or two standard deviations of normal. And he could deal with that probability.
All these years later, when he literally couldn't walk because his sciatic nerve fired up and rendered him only able to crawl, and he HAD.TO.PEE.RIGHT.NOW, but wasn't within crawling distance of his dream, he looked at me, as I held a cup under his body, and said "You married me for better or worse. And this is the worse." And, then, we both laughed with gusto.
Having taken statistics in college, I knew the probability that this would ever happen again was about one billion to one. For which I am eternally grateful.
The two of us, together? Our marriage is in the 99th-plus percentile.
Even when one of us is crouching on the floor on all fours peeing into a cup as he laughs hysterically.
*Less you think I am walking around, without a soul, and post just for laughs, and am using this unfortunate event just to get a rise out of all of you, hear this: Mike gladly, totally gave me permission.
See, I'm not the meanie you thought I was.