As my husband’s date over the years, I’ve seriously benefited from his teaching skills. He’s a medical educator and has received a veritable stack of restaurant gift certificates from grateful residents. Courtesy of these young anesthesiologists we’ve tried lots of great places we wouldn’t have otherwise gone.
(Mostly because I’m lazy and short of finding a dead rodent between the couch cushions, I can’t really think of any good reason to get off of it).
Anyway, there was one time, when instead of a gift card we were invited to join the newly-minted specialist for a celebratory dinner.
How sweet, I thought.
How not, I soon realized.
I’d never met him before and my spouse neglected to mention that the anesthesiologist was so boring he didn’t need medication to put his patients out. Mid-way through the salads I was ready to pitch forward into the poppy seed dressing. By the main course I’d begun to fantasize about a station wagon driving through the plate glass window. As the waiter appeared with the dessert menu I had to stop myself from tackling him before he got to the table.
We finally staggered back to the car.
“Next time,” I suggested when I found my voice. “Just ask for the gift certificate.”
My husband was quiet for a minute. “What if all the coupons for two were so people didn’t have to subject themselves to us?” he worried.
“You,” I corrected. “They don’t know me.”
