2010
The first time we watched Big Bang Theory, we laughed at the
nerds and their awkward social skills. Finally, some TV characters we could
relate to! Sure, they’re supposed to be geniuses, but we like the same shows,
play the same games, and laugh at the same jokes!
But then, during one episode, Matt, breathless with
laughter, gasped out, “The equation! The math on the board behind them! It
actually goes with what they’re talking about!”
“Really?” I said. “That’s cute.”
“This show is hilarious,” he said.
“You know, babe,” I said. “I don’t think other people are
laughing at the same thing you’re laughing at.”
2003
Equations aren’t the least bit funny. I used to proofread
his science papers in college, skipping the mathematical bits. “Is this really
what you mean here?” I asked once.
“Yeah, because look at these variables,” he replied,
pointing to an equation where N equaled a squiggle unless X was blue.
I stared. “It’s like a horrid massacre of numbers and
letters!”
“Mostly letters,” he said. “Few numbers were inconvenienced
in its making.” He spent the next several minutes explaining it to me.
I shook my head, sadly. “The guts of language!” I said.
“Strewn across the page as a sacrifice to some dead Greek mathematician!
Strewn! Like chicken entrails!”
2005
He really wants me to understand, which would be cute if it
wasn’t so much like homework. Because I love my scientist, I smile and listen,
asking clarifying questions when he pauses for breath or dramatic effect.
“So you’re saying the particles can move through walls?” I
asked in our dark bedroom one cold December night, snuggled under a mound of
rumpled blankets.
“They call it quantum tunneling,” he said.
I couldn’t read his expression in the dark. “You’re just
making that up, right?” I said.
“No, it’s a real thing!”
I socked him with a pillow. “You just put the word ‘quantum’
in front of something and you expect me to fall for it?”
“I’m serious!” he said, socking me back. “They move through
walls!”
In case you’re wondering, it is a real thing, and he’ll
never let me live that down.
2004
“I don’t even hear it anymore,” said Sandy , whose husband is also a scientist.
“Did we tell you about the elevator music theory?” asked
Sarah.
“No,” I said. “What’s that?”
“When you put them in a room together and they start
talking, eventually everything they say transforms into elevator music in the
background.”
I looked across the room where our husbands were deep in a
discussion about the feasibility of the siege weapons at the Battle of Pelennor
Fields in Return of the King. The melodic cadence of their voices was only
occasionally marred by words like “stone”, “momentum”, and “trebuchet”.
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t hear it anymore either.”
2012
He must have known I wasn’t hearing his lecture on the state
of the national debt because he stopped to ask, “Don’t these numbers fascinate
you?”
“No,” I said. “To be honest, they confuse and terrify me.”
“An octillion would be bigger than Avogadro’s number.”
I vaguely remembered that from high school chemistry. “I
knew what that was once,” I said.
“Six point oh-two times ten to the twenty-third,” he
supplied helpfully.
“Yup, that’s the one,” I said.
He shook his head at me. “How does your brain not work that
way?”
“You’ve got the numbers, I’ve got the…” I trailed off. What
did I have? Oh, yes. I pointed at the notebook in my lap where I was
journaling. “Words and things.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Word things?”
“Yes, you’ve got the numbers. I’ve got the word things.”
2004
Sometimes, it’s like we’re speaking different languages.
Even when we’re watching a movie together, we’re not watching the same movie.
“That bridge is structurally unsound,” he said during Van
Helsing. “Especially with that chunk missing out of the middle like that. Those
supports on the end wouldn’t be enough. The whole thing should have buckled by
now.”
“The movie is about vampires and werewolves and you’re
complaining about that?”
“It bugs me!” he said, defensively.
“It’s a fantasy movie!” I said. “Suspend disbelief!”
2012
I still can’t get him to suspend disbelief. “I’ve done the
math,” he said during Avengers. “The most successful heli-vehicles weigh no
more than 6 tons. The smallest aircraft carriers weigh 12 tons. The
heli-carrier would need at least 600 of those rotar-blades. It’s just not
possible.”
I rolled my eyes at him, “Asgard isn’t real either. Just
saying.”
2009
Sometimes he really wants these things to be real. I once
thought he would sink into a depression over what he thought was an error in
the new Star Trek movie. "I noticed that they have transporter pads on the
shuttles, so why didn't they just transport Kirk Sr. off the bridge at the last
second?"
"Because then there wouldn’t be a movie," I said,
like someone trained in literary theory. "How did you notice there were
transporter bays in the shuttles?"
"In that scene on the ice planet where Spock beams
Scotty and Kirk onto the Enterprise ,
he was using a transporter inside a shuttle."
"Well, that scene is supposed to be 25 years later,
right? Maybe the older models didn't have transporters?"
"No," he said. "I went back and watched both
scenes several times. Not only can you see the handrails for the transporter
bay in the first scene, you can also tell that the shuttles in the two scenes
are the same model."
"That's very thorough of you," I said.
After an hour and a lengthy discussion, we came up with an
agreeable explanation: They couldn't beam Kirk Sr. off the bridge because the
ship and the shuttles were both moving. They mention the difficulty of transporting
moving targets at least three other times in the film, showing that it’s a
dangerous procedure and takes great skill.
His face beamed. You would have thought we had cracked the
Da Vinci Code there in our living room.
2011
Unsolvable puzzles turn up in our living room all the
time.
“I bought this mirror,” I said, pointing to the giant frame
he couldn’t possibly have missed.
“How the heck did you get that thing home?” he asked.
“Grandma helped.”
“Oh, good grief,” he said.
“I need to hang it above the couch,” I said, pointing,
“right there.”
He knelt beside the mirror, testing its weight. I could
almost hear gears turning. “We might have to rig up a pulley system. If I start
with a board, and attach hooks here and here-”
“Don’t tell me about it,” I said. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Let’s go to the hardware store.”
Just Yesterday
We wouldn’t be going anywhere all weekend, not with his
sprained ankle. “I’m sorry I ruined your plans!” he said as we crawled into
bed.
“It’s okay,” I lied. “They weren’t elaborate plans.”
“We could go anyway?” he said, but in a way that implied he
hoped I’d say no.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Maybe we’ll order a pizza,
watch some Big Bang Theory. We can still have fun.”
“Okay,” he said.
Then after several minutes of quiet in the dark, he said,
“Will you sing ‘Soft Kitty’ to me?”
I laughed, but remembered the appropriate response. “You’re
not sick. You’re injured.”
Right on cue, he said, “Injured is a kind of sick.”
So I sang “Soft Kitty” to my ailing scientist and kissed him
goodnight.
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