I don’t know what I am.
But I’m not that.
Isn’t that wonderful?

I cannot remember if we ordered Girl Scout cookies this year. It was now the middle of May. I only now remembered the cookies because of the seasonal craving that thrust itself up on me. I asked my husband about the order, as he was always the one whose friends had daughters, who sold them to us. Him.
He told me, however, that for the last two years, at least, he’d been ordering the cookies online.
“Well,” I asked. “Did you order them this year?”
He scratched his head and then asked me to pop in a video for him.
“What video?” I asked.
“Sweatin’ To the Oldies,” he said.
“Richard Simmons!” I cried. “I want Girl Scout Cookies and all you can think about is Richard Simmons?” I was surprised by my anger–my sudden ejaculation of words–over damn cookies.
But it had been so long. Since last year. And it seemed like a slap in the face that he should want to watch an exercise video when I wanted to devour a whole box of Samoas.