I am not an athlete. Nor am I married to an athlete. Competition just isn’t really our thing.
Or so I thought, until my husband came upstairs the other day and plopped this on the counter.
That’s right. The Scarlet Letter audiobook. Strike that, The Scarlet Letter Bookcassette. And it didn’t seem all that threatening at first. Then I realized that we still own a “Boom Box” (excuse me while I cringe at that phrase which confirms the fact that I am no longer in my twenties.)
The next thing I knew, he was listening to a mono recording of a deep voice pronouncing words oddly, like “preeternayturally” and “endeevor.” At the time he was about twelve chapters behind me, and I was happy that he found an additional way to make his way through this classic, since there doesn’t seem to be an abridged version.
Then I caught him taking a bath while his Kindle lady read to him. Her pronunciations made Dick Hill of the cassettebook look like a phonetic specialist. And while it was a little bothersome that a woman was reading to my bathing husband, my concern actually was with how quickly he was catching up.
When I got home from my run the next afternoon I wasn’t feeling particularly speedy, and then when I heard that deep bass voice reading out the very chapter next to mine, my whole world slowed to a turtlesque crawl.
Actually, it would be more accurate to say that the recording perked my rabbitlike ears. For I was the hare, and my beloved, the tortoise. And the faithful, consistent, resourceful, shelled contestant in this unbeknownst competition was crawling towards a win.
You don’t need to know how the fable ended. Just know that it did. Also know that this rabbit and turtle are still happily married, and it’s possible that the turtle didn’t even know we were in a race.
So, tell me, what is the moral of the story?