Tears of a Vulcan

Over the holiday weekend, I was again trapped in our truck with Younger and my husband and their shared warped humor.

“I was watching Star Trek the other day,” Younger announced, not too long into the drive. “And, at one point, when Spock was crying, the closed captioning read ‘sobbing mathematically.’ ” My husband burst into laughter. “Seriously,” Younger assured us. “I have the pictures.”

And so they launched into an exchange of quoted movie lines and comedian routines, bits and pieces that earned great jocularity and fist bumps in the male members of our small party but left the lone female staring blankly into the darkness beyond the windows.

“Mom,” Younger ventured after several minutes, laughter still in his voice. “You doing okay?”

“I think she’s quietly sobbing,” my husband responded.

“Mathematically,” Younger tacked on, right on cue.

Pushed a bit too far, I, over my husband’s guffaws, replied smartly, “If I’m ever sobbing mathematically, you need to take me directly to a hospital.”

Undaunted, Younger questioned, “Can you sob grammatically?”

We were only fifteen minutes into an hour and a half drive. Even a Vulcan would have been in tears.



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