Beating the odds

My husband has a strange race going with time, especially when it comes to catching a plane. I arrive at the airport 2 and a half hours before a flight, and relax with a book in hand, basking in the satisfying reassurance of having a seat number attached to my ticket. My husband, thrives on the adrenalin rush that accompanies not knowing whether he'll miss his flight or not. When we travel together, he matches my style, as there is much to pay for if he doesn't. Tonight he is on his own. I offer to deposit him at the airport. He has ambitious plans of swimming some laps, going to his office, and visiting a neighbor who has just had hip surgery before hopping on the plane - all within 2 hours before schedule take off. The drive down to SFO is a nail-biting, lip-biting trip. "You are going to miss the flight", I almost say. But, experience has made him good at this race. He beats his record sprint to the check-in counter, while I wait at the curb in case he fails. As a police car aims a light beam at me to move on, my phone rings. "I'm on! See you soon."

I wave to the police officer and head home, stopping by to pick up milk, eggs, and jam on the way. My remote oven, aka daughter, has the chicken roasting with mushrooms and carrots. We sit down for dinner, my daughter in her father's seat, imitating his love/hate relationship with cheese. Something tells me her father's hope of losing weight on this trip will not be answered. Switzerland and France are not exactly cheese-free, after all.