My husband had been traveling and his job had been especially hectic lately, so when he asked, “Just what time is the presidential debate?” I knew he was waving a white flag more than checking on the schedule.
“9:00,” I said.
“Ugh,” he said.
You know you’re old when the thought of staying up past nine seems like a challenge.
We cleaned up the counterful of dirty dinner dishes, sent a couple of errant children to bed, admonished a third to wrap things up AND STOP TEXTING, sat down in the family room and turned on the TV.
He lasted 20 minutes.
“I’ll just have to watch it in the morning,” he muttered, and staggered upstairs.
“Goodnight, geezer,” I warbled cheerfully, and returned to yelling at the screen, my only company Twitter and Facebook.
I noticed a tweet from my daughter. It read: “My mother yells at the presidential debates the way other people do at football games.”
Humpf. “Go to bed!” I bellowed.
I continued to watch, and to follow my Twitter feed.
I woke with a jolt. Talking heads were on the screen – no sign of the candidates.
I’d fallen asleep on the couch.
Rested and ready, my husband and I watched it together in the morning.