My Wife’s a Believer

While the kids were in the basement arguing over the ownership of a foam sword, Lindsay approached me in the kitchen.

“Sometime this week I want to sit with you alone in the dark and …”

“This already sounds terrible.” I interrupted.

Normally, I wouldn’t summarily dismiss a beautiful woman suggesting we spend time alone in the dark, but in this circumstance it was justified, as I knew something ridiculously mystical was coming next.

“We should see if over these past 13 years we’ve become more psychically connected. We’ll put our foreheads together, I’ll think of a number between one and ten, I’ll say it over and over again in my head, and see if you can guess it.”

Clearly, I was faced with a difficult decision here. I knew she’d done this with an ex during a marijuana-infused futon session with great results — the kind I couldn’t possibly match. Do I play the game and risk her subconsciously doubting our emotional connection? There was only a 10% chance that I would nail it, and though success would provide me bountiful leniency for any future transgressions, it would also set a dangerous precedent that I  understand what she’s thinking. Either way, I lose. My only option was not to participate,

“We tried this a long time ago and it was a miserable failure. It took me 8 guesses.” I pleaded.

“I know, but maybe we’ve evolved.”

She’d set a diabolical trap. It was true, I hadn’t agreed to one of these middle school sleep-over games in nearly a decade. If we didn’t show some improvement in our “connectedness,” my wife might make me read a relationship book written by a soft-spoken bearded man. I also feared my participation could open the gates to future mysticisms like dulcimer lessons, and the excessive wearing of silk scarves.

It’s not easy to tell your wife that you’re not interested in testing the “growth of your psychic connection,” but she left me no choice. Undeterred, she turned to Silas who had recently entered the room to narc on his brother for opening the oven. I wanted to warn him of his mother’s witchcraft, but I was too late; the enthusiasm in her voice had already hypnotized him.

They pressed their foreheads together and the genie went to work.

“Ok, I’m going to think of a number between one and ten and you try to guess what it is.”

“SIX”! He yelled, immediately.

“Oh my God.”

“Did I get it?”  He asked.

“No, it was three, but I was TOTALLY going to think about six until I changed my mind at the last second.”


“Yes! Ok, now I’ll do you. Think really hard about a number…”

I watched, slack-jawed, as the two of them bonded like pajamaed tweens who just discovered they have similar birthmarks. Silas wanted to be psychic, and his mother didn’t want to discourage him from that possibility, but the fact was, after 5 turns, neither of them had come even close to guessing correctly. After Silas ran off, Lindsay felt she had to explain their mind reading failures.

“His brain probably hasn’t matured enough to communicate like that.”

He must have inherited that from me.

To all of you reading, pick a number …. think about it really hard …



Oh 3? That’s TOTALLY what I was going to guess!

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