Thursday, December 13, 2018
My sense of humor can be ... odd at times.
We finally got chairs for the kitchen, to replace the counter height quartet that, after 15 years of sledgehammer onslaught from Steinberg posteriors, had begun to wobble. The new chairs, from Pottery Barn, came individually packed, carefully wrapped in styrofoam sheeting. The space between the chair back and the seat was filled with these smaller boxes, each box empty and labeled "VOID FILLER" I suppose to prevent customers from assuming that something was supposed to be inside and then complaining that whatever they imagined wasn't there.
"This is just what we need!" I exclaimed to my wife. "I felt an absence ... I couldn't put my finger on it. And now we have this!"
With the boys away in law school, well, I'll admit, a chunk of life seems missing. I didn't want to complain—with the real losses and tragedies happening every day, the less said about this lacuna, the better. All is as it should be.
Still ... the void was real. It would manifest itself toward dinner times where I might—or might not—wanly inquire of the wife, "Hear from the boys?"
And she would say yes, she had gotten an email from this or that boy about this or that concern. A couple pebbles to suck on for a day's trudge through the empty nest desert.
Often not even that. Nope, nothing, they're busy, I'm busy, we're all busy, beavering away at our work. Which fills the void nicely, except when it doesn't. And for that, I have these convenient boxes.
Actually, I don't. My wife took one look at them. "Ha ha," she said, and instructed me to dispose of them. Which I did.