Conflicting Emotions

A couple of weekends ago, I experienced conflicting emotions that I had not endured since puberty.

On the Thursday of this week, I noticed that some of our cutting knives just weren't (well) cutting it. As I tried to pop one of the old Kroger balloons and really had to dig into the rubber to make it pop, I sturdied my stand that to be safer: "Knives should be sharp."

I spent about ten minutes sharpening each of our black-handled, wooden sheathed knives.

Cut to Saturday evening. Romantic. The kids are at a friend's house (yes all four of them, but that is another story in miracles). We are away from Cincinnati for the weekend in a rustic, but posh cabin. The kind of place where a couple cannot go on a first date as the bedroom is the living room, is the shower, and is the fireplace area. All rooms are intimate. All places are romantic.

I have done some homework here and have packed some crackers, three varieties of cheese, some wine . . . and have even obtained some taste-contrasting apples.

The fire is warm. The evening is still. The iPod plays some background music.

It is good.

I am using the knives. I am cutting the apples. I am slicing the cheese. . .

The knife slips.

Kim's sits up quickly, eyes open wide, looking at me and my thumb.

"Right now, I am in a conflicted emotion . . . I don't know whether to be happy about the time wasted sharpening the knives or to be happy that I did such a poor job sharpening them."

10-digit Dave's evening continued . . .