saving time with the Sober Husband

The Sober Husband is a man with a keen, albeit unique, sense of efficiency. When he microwaves, he uses only one digit, say, heating food for 3:33 or :44, to save the time and effort of moving his index finger amongst the various numbers. Once he shocked a dental hygienist by firmly stating that he had no intention of taking up daily flossing, as instead he could just have his teeth cleaned an extra time a year and avoid wasting all that time and effort on daily flossing.

Nowhere is this passion for efficiency more noticeable than in his gasoline habits. He feels strongly that only a fool would waste time by unnecessary trips to the gas station. Any sensible person will wait until they can barely coast up to the pump on those last fumes of gas. Imagine the time savings over a lifetime!! Indeed, he once laughed, petting me on the head as one would pat an earnest puppy, as he looked at "all the funny little charges for gas" on my credit card statement. However, I would contend that the time I waste at gas stations is less than the time he spends trudging to a gas station, can in hand, when he has run out of gas.

And, of course, this calculus of saving time should take into account ALL THE YEARS THAT WILL BE LOST WHEN HIS HOMICIDAL WIFE SNAPS AFTER HER CAR WAS LEFT GASLESS ONE TOO MANY TIMES. We've had a number of heated little spats over this, when he parked my car and I was unable to start it again. The Sober Husband is not fazed by being out of gas (having grown accustomed to it over the years). He has a technique of coasting down the hill upon which we live, coasting almost all the way to a gas station. However, this closest gas station lies just beyond the intersection of Market, Castro and 18th Streets, the very epicenter of all gayness, and as befitting its eminence, this intersection is always clogged with traffic and pedestrians, including strollers who are far more interested in checking one another out than monitoring such tedious things as traffic lights, crossswalk perimeters, and the progress of gasless cars coasting desperately towards the gas station. (Incidentally this very same gas station is also noted for its exorbitant prices, charging usually over 30 cents more a gallon than my usual station).

Now, the Drunken Housewife is not exactly a demure, softspoken sort of spouse, and one would think any sensible husband would wish to avoid the sort of outspoken, candid exchange of views which inevitably follows her discovery of a gasless car. That has not proven to be the case, however. Evidently the time saved by avoiding tedious visits to the gas station is so valuable that it outweighs the loss of time spent being harangued by a rabid car-owner.