Dear Kid,
(You thought you saw this yesterday? Nonesense. That was a figment of your imagination. A premonition. It couldn’t possibly be that I published it on the wrong day.)
We were on our way home.
“That was beautiful!” enthused Dad. “Just wonderful. I didn’t even listen to the words; I was just captivated by her voice.”
“Huh?” I said.
“Didn’t you think she was wonderful? I really enjoyed everything about the way she spoke and sang.”
“Huh?” When you’ve got good dialog, stick with it.
“You didn’t think so?”
“Um, no.” A third time would have been ridiculous.
We talked about our impressions of the singer in question.
“You and I must have been listening to different people,” Dad said, utterly unwilling to believe there might have been even the tiniest flaw in the performance.
I’m glad he enjoyed it. I truly am. Surprised, because generally he’s much more critical than I am of, well, everything, but I’m delighted he was transported through performance.
I was not. It wasn’t awful (I’ve heard awful and this wasn’t even close), but it certainly was nothing to call America’s Got Talent over.
We didn’t discuss it any further. Somehow, we reached a silent agreement that I would keep my (correct) opinion to myself and Dad would tone down his rapturous reviews (or at least to play them silently in his head).
That’s the kind of thing you can (sometimes) do after a zillion-many years of marriage.
Or if you manage to understand that continuing to rave about a mediocre performance will give your wife a migraine and possibly earn you a kick in the shins.
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