On Sunday my husband was playing a game on his hand held game system, which is not as fun for me because I can’t watch what is happening up on the big screen. But I did get to participate in a different way. While he applied himself to the game with the concentration and dedication of someone dismantling a nuclear bomb, I read him instructions to help him get past a particularly difficult part.
I found myself actually saying out loud things like:
“Next, you’ll come across a Geega pipe. Geegas are Kraid’s version of the Zebs/Gamets.”
Or, “Then, go through the hatch on the right. You’ll see a Zeela roaming around a platform and a tall, transparent tube of some sort with many brown Rippers in it (Zeelas are Kraid’s version of the Zoomer/Nova, except slower).”
And, “The red Zeelas are especially different from the yellow ones,…When you destroy them, their eyes burst from their eyestalks and explode!!! Just make sure you don’t get hit by the exploding eyes, or you’ll take minor damage.”
I felt like I had that disease that you sometimes see in episodes of “House”, where the patient thinks they are speaking normally, but in reality everything they say comes out in some kind of garbled gibberish that makes everyone else around them try really hard not to laugh at the poor, sick person.
So I was acting as if I were blathering out complete nonsense, and I imagine that my words were then even harder to make out over all of the giggling. But my husband was reacting with total seriousness, as if I were guiding him long-distance through the process of performing an emergency amputation on a hiker stranded in the wilderness, without anesthesia, and with his only tool being a rusty pocketknife.
“Uh-huh. OK. Got it. And then what?”
Are we a great team or what?!