The Divine Comedy

I was told once that I don't handle criticism well.

And it really hurt my feelings.


I've long been a fan of Jerry Seinfeld. And his latest project, the web series Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, has brought more to my life than just further appreciation for the comedian.

It's given me a sense of belonging.

Seinfeld begins every show modeling a classic car he's picked out to represent the comedian he's about to go pick up for a coffee date. He provides an in-depth description and visual inventory of a cool vintage automobile, while offering a candid and poetic reason behind its metaphorical representation of his comedic colleague. My favorite was when he picked up Louie C.K. in a bright orange Fiat Jolly. The similarities still keep hitting me.

Numerous cameras harnessed in the car allow viewers to witness a very genuine conversation between two professionals in the same field, as they make their way to a coffee shop. The two comedians discuss various things like child-rearing and life on the road. And as beautiful footage of foaming milk and coffee pouring in slow motion rolls, the comedians talk about their life in the field of comedy.

It is within this dialogue, I feel at home.

Now, this isn't to say that I think of myself as a comedian. Or even all that funny. I don't aspire to host a talk show, or write a hit sitcom, or have a small part as a funny best friend in a chick flick. But I do find myself relating entirely to the job of a comedian.

What other profession allows for hoards of people to anonymously judge one's professional ability on an extremely routine basis?

None that I can think of.

Except the professor.

I've never done stand up in a dark night club in front of a crowd of drunks. But I regularly stand in front of a room full of people and try to get, and keep, their attention.

For both the instructor and the comedian, the goal is to appeal to the most number of people in the audience. Both have to entertain, challenge and inform. Both try not to alienate anyone. And both have to keep the audiences coming back. The comedian, so he can pay the bills; the instructor, so she can prepare them for the midterm.

But perhaps the biggest similarity between the comedian and the professor is the extreme way in which the professional is scrutinized.

Scrutiny that is both immediate and delayed. Both helpful and hurtful.

As the comedian stands in front of the silent crowd, he can immediately tell he's bombing. Days later, he can read the review of his act, or movie, or television show, in a critic's belabored review in the paper, a magazine or online.

Every semester, a few weeks before final exams, college students get to evaluate their professors. They get to answer a series of questions in which they rank each professor on teaching style, course content, personality and grading fairness. They also get a comments section in which they can write any amount of feedback they feel necessary.

Student evaluations can be a wonderful thing. They give students a great amount of voice and power over an experience for which they are paying. Professors can use this feedback to improve their courses. And the university can judge the effectiveness of the professors it employs.

On top of student evaluations, professors undergo peer evaluations, in which a fellow professor sits in on a colleague's class to observe the teaching style. Then, every year a professor submits numerous documents, which include their student and peer evaluations, for their annual performance review.

This semester, every class period was an immediate critique of my craft. Like the comedian, I have to read the room. Some days I walked out of class after dramatically dropping the mic, with the glint of sweat on my brow and the sound of uproarious applause following me out the door. And other days, I ended class curled up under the lectern while students lined up to have me clarify every single thing I had said over the past hour.

And when student evaluations come in, and they do a week or so after the semester has ended, there is the long-form critique of everything I did or said or implied over the past semester.

This semester, by all accounts, was a good one. I taught more classes, and had more students, than I ever have in all my years of teaching. I stuck to my promise of returning student emails the day I received them. I worked tirelessly on lecture notes and classroom activities. I returned all graded assignments within two weeks and I memorized and used everyone's names.

The last day of the semester I drove home feeling as if I had given my all and truly felt there wasn't anything I would have done differently.

And yet, a week later when the evaluations came in, my stomach tightened.

The report generates a numerical value to show how I performed in all the areas evaluated. It also shows me how my score compared to the other faculty members. I breathed a sigh of relief to see my value was as high as I would have ranked myself.

But then there is the almighty comments section.

And that's where I tend to lose my shit.

I opened the comments section to find a screen full of dense text. My eyes skimmed furiously to see negative phrasing, criticism, judgement and disdain.

I quickly closed the document and sat very still at my desk.

I searched for a distraction. I opted for the Comedians in Cars episode featuring Chris Rock. And that man has had his share of negative feedback.

After the episode ended, I forced myself to read every word each student wrote. Fortunately, most every comment was positive, complimentary and gracious.

But then came those that weren't so glowing. That demanded faster turn around time on grades. That desired a harder midterm exam. That wanted longer lectures. That needed me to talk slower. Talk louder. Talk softer. Talk less. Provide more PowerPoints, provide less PowerPoints, help explain what a PowerPoint is. Grade tougher. Grade easier. Stop assigning grades and just get to know the student as a person.

Every day we are evaluated on a million decisions and actions we do. How methodically we parent, how well we treat our friends, how much we tip our waiter. We face feedback on our actions in a variety of ways: we might be paid a compliment by a stranger, waved at by a friend, hugged by a child, kissed by a lover, high-fived by a co-worker.

But among all the positive feedback lurks a negative comment. That person sitting in the audience who isn't laughing. The student who isn't learning. The friend who feels neglected. The waiter who is cheated.

The negative feedback we get from our actions, from our behaviors, from our abilities, are painful for one simple reason: it's something we already know about ourselves.

If a student ever called me a racist--or heaven forbid, boring--I'd brush it off as radically unfounded. But when a student remarks that I'm not a strong lecturer, or I don't explain certain things thoroughly, or that I'm sometimes forgetful or disorganized, or points out a part of my personality for which I already feel insecure, it hurts down deep.

I prefer to walk around thinking my flaws, my weaknesses, my insecurities, are hidden well beneath my Spanx. And are my little secret. So when they are all pointed out to me by others, who can see them so clearly, I feel vulnerable and exposed.


Because no one wants to have their weaknesses confirmed.

It removes the small glimmer of hope that they really don't exist.

In nearly every episode of Comedians in Cars, the guest will admit to bombing in front of an audience when just starting out in the profession. They talk of the frustration and the heartbreak of not getting laughs in the early years.

It's the equivalent of adjunct teaching.

They talk of the constant feedback from the audience. The absurd need to please the crowd, and the humility--and resentment--that comes with that.

And yet the comedian and the professor are also the kind of professionals who can't seem to find their place in any other line of work. Which makes me wonder if perhaps, just maybe, both sought out a profession that continually puts them in a position to be judged. Is there some need they both have to be constantly evaluated, and to therefor be constantly evaluating themselves? While I'm not entirely sure how the comedian would respond, I would imagine he or she would say exactly what I would:

No comment.

Thorn in Her Paw

Our three year old came home from school one day with a splinter in her thumb. In her mind, this was the most fascinating event that had ever happened in her life. She explained, in great detail, how she got the splinter on a piece of bamboo during craft time. She talked endlessly about how her friends had gathered around to share in her excitement and gawk at her finger. She gabbed on and on about her teachers' reaction to her splinter, and she boasted proudly about how brave she was through it all. We could barely get her to eat dinner for all the talk of timber.

But as the night wound down and her bedtime drew near, we informed her that we would have to take out the splinter.

Her big saucer eyes blinked at us with confusion.

We explained that we didn't want the splinter to cause an infection. We couldn't leave it in her finger.

Blink. Blink.

Then we reached for the tweezers.

From that point forward, the most fascinating experience of our child's life turned into the most traumatic three days in our house.

Morning and night we pleaded with our screaming child. Begged her to just hold still for one minute so we could pluck the log from her thumb. Instead of relenting, she would wail dramatically and crawl up to the highest point on the nearest piece of furniture. We asked for help from her teachers, but they are not legally allowed to pull out splinters. They stood quite firm on this. And not a single teacher would bend to my attempts at backdoor bribery.

Finally, I had the bright idea to wait until our child was sleeping. We would sneak into her room with a flashlight and tweezers and gently extract the plank from her precious thumb. So that night, we bathed her, read her a story, put her to bed and waited.

When we heard her coherent talking shift into her sleep talking--a shift we are experts in discerning--we snuck up the stairs. Jim carried the flashlight and I had the traumatizing tongs at the ready. But as we grabbed her hand and turned it toward the beam of light, we saw a pink, vacant slit in her thumb.

The splinter was gone.

It had worked its way out on its own.

This semester I taught four courses. And for one of the courses, Research Methods, I taught two sections. One was held during the day, and one at night. After the first few weeks of class, I began to see a startling difference in the way the two classes would respond to various assignments, lectures and tests. One section was better at presentations; the other had higher exams scores. One was more laid back; the other more serious. One preferred group projects; the other wanted to work on their own.

I felt as if I was conducting a research experiment between two test groups.

The most notable difference between the two sections came during their final project. They had to use the almighty scientific method to form and test a hypothesis on themselves. For this, they needed to identify a problem in their lives--study habits, stress levels, social media addiction, etc.--and determine an intervention that could alleviate it.

Students had to meticulously track numerous variables for a week, then impose the intervention on themselves, and then track their progress for another week. They had to statistically analyze all the quantitative and qualitative data, then write up and graphically illustrate the findings.

I urged students to think about something in their lives they were already wanting to change. Give thought to a behavior or habit they felt was an obstacle to overcome. Allow this project to be a great excuse to improve their lives.

Both classes seemed skeptical. And hesitant.

Due to the personal nature of the project, I decided that instead of individually presenting their findings with a formal presentation, we would instead, sit in a circle and have a discussion about the triumphs, and failures, of their research.

It's my personal opinion that empirical research doesn't have enough open dialogue.

Or hugs.

The first class gathered around the last night in a large circle with reports and charts in their laps. Their strange, nervous energy had me wondering if the assignment was an epic failure.

A student volunteered to speak first. She had experimented with reducing stress through daily meditation. She found that twenty minutes of meditation in the morning showed a statistically significant difference in her stress level scales. She even found that when controlling for the stress variable of Thanksgiving, meditation was still effective.

The next student also wanted to reduce stress and assumed that having an hour of downtime in the morning would help. She found it did. Not only did she feel less stressed, but she also saw a spike in her productivity, especially on the days she spent her down time away from electronics. Another student wondered if his stress could be lowered if he listened to classical music for a set amount of time in the afternoon. His data was less conclusive, but the anecdotal evidence was promising.

Another student increased the amount of quality time he spent with his girlfriend in an attempt to reduce the stress on their relationship. While he had mostly positive results, the girlfriend did not enjoy discovering, after the fact, that she was part of an experiment. One student went a week without any form of social media to see if it increased happiness. She had the most significant data to present, but warned that the withdraws were difficult and relapse was inevitable.

On and on, student after student talked about the one small modification they made in an attempt to affect positive change in their lives. While most students had significant success with their experiment, a few didn't. Those who didn't have success were reflective. Perhaps they measured the wrong variables. Others bemoaned a lack of rigidity with the intervention. Some wondered if they computed their calculations incorrectly.

But despite all the differences in the outcomes, there was one constant among the night class--they almost all chose to affect their stress levels.

I tried to look at that as a coincidence and not a reflection on my course.

The next day's class alleviated my concerns. We gathered around in a circle in the sun-soaked classroom and everyone seemed relaxed. Numerous students volunteered to speak first. The first student said she had incorporated thirty minutes of exercise to see if it helped her sleep quality. She found that she not only had a significant increase in sleep quality (as tracked by a sleep monitoring devise under her pillow), but she also stopped having headaches and lost 5 pounds.

Another said she decided to stop watching TV at night in an attempt to get better sleep. Not only did she find statistically significant difference in her sleep quality, but she didn't need to use the alarm clock. Another tried reading 15 minutes at night to see if it improved her sleep. Not only did it improve her sleep significantly, but she also realized she's a Harry Potter fan.

Student after student spoke excitedly about their experiments. Again, most had success and others wished they could tweak their intervention or track different variables.

But in the day class, almost every single student tackled the issue of sleep.

I knew that wasn't on me.

After a long semester of exploring the rich details of research design, I felt the students finally understood the importance of experimentation and the power of validated results. They seemed hopeful, excited, empowered.

I was proud of how creative and introspective the students were about their behaviors and the outcomes from their changes in them. Students seemed surprised at how easily their lives were improved and appreciated having hard data to substantiate their improvements.

Was it possible that I not only showed them the importance of research by personalizing it, but did I also help everyone improve their lives?

Assuming I had indeed, I posed the same final question to each group of twenty: Did they continue with the intervention after the assignment was over?

And in both classes, heads lowered.

Most everyone had immediately stopped their interventions and resumed their behaviors as normal.


The morning after my daughter's splinter had magically worked its way out by itself, we awoke to the sound of her excited screams.

"It's out! It's out!" she exclaimed, running around her room with her thumb triumphantly thrusted skyward.

We danced around with her, excited for her victory. And even more excited that that portion of our life--the one in which we pleaded with a screaming child in an attempt to reduce the chance of infection while promising her candy corn for letting us--was over.

And it happened all on its own.

Reflecting on my two classes' individual research projects, I'm able to draw one substantial conclusion.

Change cannot be forced.

You can fear it, you can dread it, you can run screaming from it like it's a tweezer-wielding parent.

But you can't force it.

I suppose if my students really wanted to change a habit in their lives, they would. If they wanted to be on Facebook less, they would. If they wanted better sleep, they'd get it. If they wanted a better relationship, they'd have it.

Because bad habits and negative behaviors are like menacing obstructions buried deep beneath the skin. At some point, it needs to be removed. And there's plenty of research that points to the most probable outcome:

It will work itself out.

May/December

ACT I

Light opens on a dimly lit restaurant. A couple sits at a small table for two, center stage. They are surrounded by several other tables with people sitting at them and eating. There is a subtle sound of conversation and silverware clanking. A waiter, an older gentleman, approaches the couple.

Waiter: So good to see you again.

Wife: Yes. [smiles] Like clockwork.

Waiter: Would you care for your usual drinks, or something new?

Husband: Yes, please. Extra dirty. And four olives.

Waiter: Certainly. M'am? The Zinfandel?

Wife: You know it.

Waiter: Excellent. I'll put your drink orders in and bring you some fresh bread.

Husband: Thank you.

Waiter leaves table and exits stage left.

Husband: [sighs and smiles] This was a long week.

Wife: You say that every week.

Husband: I know, I know. I don't mean to be so cranky.

Wife: You're the perfect kind of cranky. Someone who isn't really cranky, but thinks he is.

Husband stretches legs out to side of table. Sits back.

Husband: You were quiet on the way here. What's the story there?

Wife: Oh, I dunno...Lot on my mind.

Husband: Well, start somewhere.

Wife: Johnny Depp fatigue?

Husband: Start somewhere else.

Wife: [Pauses, fiddles with napkin.] Do you remember the other day we both had off and I wanted to go get a manicure?

Husband: Of course. I dropped you off at that place around the corner from here.

Wife: Right. You dropped me off and talked with me for a bit and then left to go get a coffee.

Husband: Yeah...?

Wife: Well, when you left, the manicurist said [mimics Vietnamese accent] "Ahh, he much, much older than you."

Husband: [snorts] Oh? Much? That's funny.

Wife: I know. I told her "much" was a bit of a strong word, but yeah.

Husband: Normally that doesn't bother you...

Wife: Oh, that didn't bother me. It's what she said after that. [mimics again] "When he came in here I couldn't believe what a man he was."

Husband laughs out loud with a big, one syllable hoot.

Wife: Seriously.

Husband: You don't get more manly than me.

Wife: She said you were elegant. Masculine and elegant. Like you're some kind of wild, beautiful stallion running through midtown.

Husband: Fairly accurate description.

Wife: She was thinking, "How did this girl in the yoga pants and rough cuticles land that?"

Husband: She wasn't thinking that. You're gorgeous. And besides, who cares?

Wife: I know, I know...But the one day I don't shower...

Husband: To be fair, I shouldn't have worn my tweed blazer. Too dangerous....

Waiter delivers the two drinks and a basket of bread. Husband takes a sip of his martini.

Wife: My body took such a beating having kids. I now sneeze-pee and your waist has gotten smaller.

Husband: You're more beautiful now than when we got married. Besides, you're the first to say that looks don't matter. You stress it to the girls all the time.

Wife: Oh, that's just what people say, like "I gave at the office," or "I love working out."

Husband: Wait, you don't like working out? It's like I don't even know you.

Wife: Not caring about looks is what people must do when they aren't known for their beauty.

Husband: Stop it.

Wife: No.

Husband: No, I mean stop drinking my martini. You've got your own drink.

Waiter comes back to the table, takes orders. The orders are not heard, just the sound of muted muttering over background music. Waiter leaves, music stops.

Wife: So, while she's finishing painting my nails, she says, [mimics again] "Awe, you very very lucky lady."

Husband: This sounds mildy racist....

Wife: I mean, I know I'm lucky...

Husband: [smiling] You are.

Wife: Stop. I know. I know you are great. The greatest even. But she doesn't know that. Doesn't know your personality or what you are like as a husband and father. You didn't even do anything and I'm "lucky."

Husband: I find it odd you are telling me this story so much after the fact. That was over a week ago. You usually tell me your thoughts the moment you have them. Even if I'm in the bathroom.

Wife: I know. It just built over time, I guess. Lately I've had a lot of people stressing to me how lucky I am to have you. Like I'm somehow unaware...or unworthy. [pauses, looks around] Or just on the verge of ruining it.

Husband: I'm the lucky one here.

Wife: Oh...not really...The other day the diaper genie was full. And I stood there looking at it forever, thinking: I have no clue how to empty the damn thing. Three and a half years, two kids, a million diapers later and I've never once changed the bag.

Husband: [shrugs] Least I can do.

Wife: Stop it. This is why people think I'm the lucky one.

Husband: You aren't. I am.

Wife: Obviously. [takes sip] Still, everyone acts like you just dropped from the damn sky. But I'm the one who recognized how amazing you are...and I pursued the relationship when others might not have.

Husband: [smiling] Might not have?

Wife: You know...[waving a hand between them]...the age difference. Plus, you remember your hair back then, right?

Husband: Point taken.

Wife: People act like I should count my lucky stars.

Husband: Who? Who acts like that?

Wife: [pauses] My mother.

Waiter refills water glasses. Husband smiles, reaches across table to grab the wife's hand.

Wife: I like that shirt. You're cute and I love you.

Husband: I love you more. And I'm always happy to be out with you on my arm.

Wife: Our relationship only works if people see me as the young trophy wife that I am.

Husband: They do. I was as disappointed as anyone when I figured out you had brains.

Wife: I married older thinking it would come with wealth.

Husband: Tough break. [eats a bite of bread] You ready for class tomorrow night?

Wife: Oh...I guess.

Husband: Where's your normal enthusiasm? You typically can't sleep the night before class because of excitement.

Wife: No, no. I'm excited...

Husband: But?

Wife: Oh...it's just...Well, the other day one of my students said I was really entertaining.

Husband: That's awesome.

Wife: Yeah. If I were an entertainer. I just wonder if they are learning.

Husband: Oh please. The first rule of teaching is: engage the students.

Wife: The second rule is: don't sleep with your students.

Husband: Actually, let's go ahead and call that the first rule. Maybe the only rule.

Wife: Got it.

Husband: You've had lots of experience in the classroom...But this is your first semester carrying the weight of it all. The administrative part, the research part, the advising part. Give yourself time to adjust. Grow into the role.

Wife: You're doing everything you can not to point out how early I am in my career--how green and young I am--aren't you?

Husband: Did the waiter card you? [looking around the restaurant] He should have....

Wife takes another long, pointed drink of his martini.

Husband: A real woman can look past her hatred of olives to make a point.

Wife: [pauses. sighs] I can't even process it all right now. I mean, I've never been more satisfied and excited...the kids, the job....you..... But now I feel like I'm...I dunno....failing in other areas.

Husband: Such as?

Wife: My friends for one. Just don't have as much time, or energy, for everything I used to do with them...

Husband: Like what?

Wife: When's the last time I hosted a Girls' Night? I'm busting my ass trying to make it all work. Trying to fit it all in...It's like Whack-A-Mole.

Husband: Cut yourself some slack. Or no one else will.

Wife: I can't. Who knows if they do.

Husband: Well I do. I actually like when you're distracted. I get more reading done.

Wife: [laughs, takes a drink] You are good for me.

Husband: You're even better for me. Just look at my hair.

Wife: I'm going to check in on the girls. [rummages around in purse for her phone]

Husband: They're fine.

Wife: I know. [still rummaging] But Red was a little fussy earlier. I just want that tooth to pop through already.

Husband: You're so bonded to her.

Wife: [looks up from phone, furrows brow] I'm bonded to both of them.

Husband: No, I know. It's just been so different this time around. [pauses] You're incredible with them. You know that, right?

Wife: Oh I guess. [continues texting, then looks up] Sometimes it's like, I can't even breathe when I look them, I'm so in love. And they are both so sweet and so cute I just want to punch myself in the face. But then...[pauses]. When they are both crying...at the same time...both needing me in the same moment...I just want to walk out the front door, get in the car and leave.

Husband: Can I come?

Wife: Better not. I'm a lone wolf.

Husband: Well, by the time you found your car keys in that purse, they would have probably stopped crying.

Wife: [holds up her purse] This mess is my maternal instinct.

They are silent for a moment. Both take a few sips of their drinks.

Wife: Red makes me feel like a good mom.

Husband: You are.

Wife: No, I mean, I know I am by common, rational standards. But she just makes me believe I'm good. Like I have instincts. She's just so easily comforted by me.

Husband: We all are.

Wife: Yeah, right. I've never felt it was a strength I have as a mother At least not with Cakes. [looks at him for a beat] I wish I could be more like you are with her. More patient.

Husband: I'm only good with her because she's a little version of you. Louder, but basically the same.

Wife: That's part of my struggle...I can barely deal with myself half the time.

Husband: She's lucky to be like you. And that's why we get along well. I'm as intrigued by her as I am by you.

Wife: I think you mean entertained.

Husband laughs. 

Wife: [looks down at phone again] Ok, she wrote back. Baby girl is out. Cakes is painting. [sighs, relieved. pauses and drinks.] Are you ready for the executive's retreat next week?

Husband: Oh, I guess...[looks off] It's sometimes a little bit of a challenge.

Wife: Your job? Or being married to me?

Husband: Both. But also, just knowing I'm the same age as the others...

Wife: ...the other men. You can say it. There are no female executives.

Husband: The company just doesn't trust women to be leaders.

Wife: Why would they?

Husband: Too unstable...

Wife: Oh! [she claps once] The Vanity Fair came yesterday and Angelina Jolie is on the cover.

Husband: Yes, isn't there a Philip Roth interview in there?

Wife: Yes, yes. [she swats a hand] I put it on your nightstand. But did you see the cover? The headline says something like, "An In-depth Interview with Mrs. Pitt."

Husband: [laughs] Burn.

Wife: I know, right? [takes a sip] I mean, the world has referred to Gavin Rossdale as the "Bush frontman" for twenty years. No Mr. Stefani? Bush hasn't released an album since the early nineties. They aren't even a band anymore.

Husband: No...they got back together a few years ago. I think they have a new album out...

Wife: Oh...Well. They called him the "Bush frontman" for so damn long the band had to get back together.

Husband: Wonder what Mrs. Rossdale thinks about that.

Wife: [laughs, eats a bite of bread] So anyway, the retreat. What were you saying?

Husband: Oh...I'm the same age as all of them but they all have grown kids. So flying off to a retreat in the woods is no big deal for them or the wives they leave behind. Their kids can drive themselves to school. The wives aren't stuck changing all the diapers.

Wife: Don't worry, women can feel resentment at any stage of life. I'm sure those wives have plenty to go on.

Husband: I can only imagine...

Wife: Besides, those guys are probably wishing they had waited longer to have children, like you did. You had the advantage of building your career before your children came along. [pauses, looks off] You don't have to struggle with being early in your career and early in parenthood. [takes a sip] Besides, our two babies keep you young.

Husband: Then how do you explain how much grayer I've gotten since Cakes was born?

Wife: Elegance.

Waiter brings a tray full of plates to the table. Places plates in front of the man and woman. 

Husband: We need to baby proof a bit more in the house. Red is on the move now.

Wife sighs heavily. Cuts into her steak. Takes a bite. Sits back.

Husband: What? Am I doing it again? Being overly cautious?

Wife: Always. But it's not that. It's just the monotony of it all.

Husband: Of life?

Wife: Yeah, life and parenting. It's like, I do the dishes every day. Sometimes twice a day. And I'm washing those damn bottles and thinking: This will only last until tomorrow. Then I have to do it all over again. And the laundry. It's never ending. So many tiny pairs of Frozen underwear to fold and put away. It's adorable and maddening all at once. [pauses] I know I need to savor the moments...but I just get tired of the monotony.

Husband: And yet, we lose our minds when something goes awry. Breaks our routine. Like a cold. Or teething.

Wife: I know...But even the chaos feels monotonous.

Lights go down for a moment and then back up again. Time has passed. The waiter comes and clears plates. Sets down a cup of coffee in front of the man and places the bill in the middle of the table.

Husband: [takes a cautious sip of his coffee and sits back] We don't read enough plays.

Wife: [rolls eyes] Oh god...

Husband: We used to read a lot of plays. And go see a lot of plays.

Wife: Yes, and get ten hours of sleep a night...and go to the movies...and drink at bars....

Husband: I know, I know. I just really think we need to read more plays.

Wife: Why? Oh, because we just saw Birdman? 

Husband: No. I mean, that reminded me, but I just really like reading plays.

Wife: I guess. They are just always so depressing. Who cares about the drunken malaise of the upper-middle class?

Husband: Okay then, Shakespeare?

Wife: Me thinks no.

Husband: We can read something more contemporary. Maybe find a play with just a couple of characters and read it to each other.

Wife: Naked?

Husband: Whatever works.

They sit back and look around the restaurant.

Wife: [breaking the silence] You always do that, you know? You always seem so nostalgic for the past. For the things we used to do. Always wanting to recapture the past.

Husband: Maybe. But you are always wanting to move forward at lightning speed. Tackling project after project like you are blissfully unaware of how long life is.

The couple is silent again. Husband pays the bill. 
The waiter comes up quietly to retrieve the tray of cash.

Husband: [to waiter] I don't need any change.

Waiter: Thank you both. We will see you next week, yes?

Wife: [smiling] You know it.

Stage darkens. A light appears stage right onto a rounded, 
blue exterior door. The couple exits through the door.

Wife: [rubs hands together rapidly] Burrrr!

Husband: I know, it's brutal. [helps wife into her coat, holds her in an embrace, rests his chin on the top of her head.]

Wife: Everyone is right. I am the lucky one. [looks up at him] I just hate they know that.

Husband: They know nothing.

Wife: All good things in my life stem from you, you know.

Husband: Hush. You're gushing.

Wife: [looks up at the sky] I didn't realize it was going to be this cold tonight.

Husband: I hate winter.

Wife: So cranky...

Husband: I'm more lovable in the summer.

Wife: Says who?

Husband: Your manicurist.

The couple walks slowly, hand in hand, off stage right.

END SCENE