a quiet evening in middle age

     We share a driveway with our beloved neighbors, Roy and Arlene. Both in their 60s, they are like ants: constantly moving, carrying around things that are ten times their weight. We cannot keep up with them. Laura and I are more like beetles. Beetles just kind of walk around. You can pick them up and carry them outside; they wiggle their legs a bit, but otherwise don't protest. And once you toss them outside, they flip themselves over and keep walking like that's where they meant to be anyway.
     We had a quiet evening last night. Did you? Or were you out dancing, like Roy and Arlene were. Most weekend nights, while we clean up after supper we look out the kitchen window and see them heading out to dinner in New Haven or to go dancing who knows where. I would not know where to go dancing other than in the kitchen.
     Last night, after Roy and Arlene drove away in black tie outfits, we, in blue jean outfits, got to work on trying to find a movie. Laura wanted something funny. My two suggestions, "In Search of the Perfect Human Diet," and "Escape Fire: the fight to rescue American Healthcare" were not her top choices, but she agreed to let me try to find them.
     Gradually, we got lost in the dark space between the television and the remote(s). You've had that happen, I'm sure. It's like getting one number wrong, early on, in Sudoku. The situation gets worse and worse as you go on, and at a certain point you might as well erase the whole puzzle and start again.
     We do not generally watch TV, in the sense of watching something that is "on," like one used to do with, say, The Mary Tyler Moore Show. On those occasions when we do turn on the television machine, things we want to see are either on "my DVR" or "On Demand" or on another machine entirely -- the DVD player -- which talks to Netflix, something called Vudu, and a couple of other cyber libraries we've never ventured into.
     Last night we were ambitious, though, and wandered deep into the dark, electronic forest. We could not find our way to a good movie. A couple of times I found myself at a place where I could begin "typing," painstakingly, with the remote, "in space search space of space the space perfect space human space diet." Do you know how long that takes with a remote? Long enough for Laura, who is chewing and watching the letters appear, one by one, on the screen, to finish her salad and go get seconds. I try this on Netflix, On Demand, and, in wholly uncharted territory, the aptly named Vudu. Each time I am told that "There are 0 matches to your request," I have to find my way out of the forest and then go back in again, struggling for the secret path that takes you to the secret cave that leads to the place where you can begin typing again. Each time, this: There are 0 matches to your request.
     Periodically, Laura asks for the remote. "Let me try," she'll say. Though this is never a successful move, I occasionally comply and pass it to her so that I can take some more bites of food. Each time she quickly reaches the end of her rope and passes back the remote. We begin to find this pattern increasingly funny, but march on. The final time she asks for the remote, I tell her "No, La. Not once have we made any progress when you've had the remote." She accepts this and goes back to her salad.
     Exhausted with bushwhacking through the forest, we see among the "JUST IN!" selections a Bette Midler and Billy Crystal movie that we had never heard of. This is not a good thing, when choosing a movie to watch on a quiet Saturday night. We actually pay $3.99 (so desperate are we at this point) to watch the first 15 minutes of a very bad movie. If I could remember the name of it, I would advise you to steer clear.
     At 9:00, we head to bed with our books. This is where we should have gone in the first place. Yes, we were ambitious: salads on Saturday night in front of a movie. This does not seem too much to ask, but it was.

     I'm sorry -- I know I'm going on a bit, but the story of last night's evening in middle age is not over yet.
     As I am getting ready for bed, Laura actually points at me and laughs. She is laughing at the new underwear she bought a couple of weeks ago. One of those 3 packs of Jockeys. You know them.
     "What." I say. "I told you these were weird."
     "But they were 'French Cut'! I thought we wore 'French Cut'! Maybe we wear 'bikini."
     "No, hon," I tell her. "We wear 'French Cut.'"
     "But that can't be right!" She points at me again.
     "I know! That's what I was telling you!"
     "What happened to 'French Cut'? Like these guys." And here she points to her own underwear.
     "Jockey doesn't make them like that anymore, La. The French have changed their cut."
     "What do you mean? How can they do that?"

     Suddenly, I feel like I am channeling my parents. So many conversations they'd have like this while ending their day. Everyone in the family has memories of overhearing their sweet conversations after they'd gone into their bedroom.
     "I think the problem is," my mom would say, "that they don't make things like that anymore."
     "Unh?" says Pop.
     "No, honey. They're all something called digital now, I think."
     "Digital. How you spell?"
     "D.i.g.i.t.a.l."
     "Oh! Digital. I know this word."
     "Yes."
     "All record and tape like this?"
     "I'm not sure. I think so. We can ask the kids in the morning."
     "A good day, Mama. So lucky."
     "A wonderful day, honey. We are so lucky."