That’s Impossible

 

There are lots of differences between Mike and me.  He is tall.  I am not.  He is quiet.  I am not.  I have a disco ball hanging in the bathroom.  He pretends that there isn’t a disco ball hanging in the bathroom.

But one of the biggest differences between us can be summed up in a single phrase:  “That’s impossible.”

It’s one of Mike’s favorites and he throws it out whenever I want something.  And I hate it.

I don’t like this phrase,  “that’s impossible.”  I think it’s lazy.  Anyone who’s ever been to a brainstorming session knows how “that’s impossible” crushes the flow of creativity.  But he wields it like a giant sword, lopping off the heads of creative thinkers.  It drives me crazy!

I’m sure he would have said “That’s impossible!” when I picked and pulled and twisted, trying to remove the hard plastic security case from my new Phil Collins/No Jacket Required cassette.  I saw it in the checkout aisle at Target and I needed it now!  I needed to listen to it in the car on the way home.  But I couldn’t get that damn case off.  And my mom kept saying just wait until you get home, what are you doing?  you’re going to break it!  But I knew there had to be a way to get that thing off because everybody was listening to Phil Collins/No Jacket Required!  In the end, I cracked the cover and I had blood running down my arm but I had Phil Collins in the tape deck.  Su sussudio, goddammit.

When things get really stressful, he starts whipping out “that’s impossible” at completely inappropriate times; like when things are entirely possible.

Me:  “What should we have for dinner?”  

Mike:  “That’s impossible.”

Case in point,  there were beds left in the cabin but I was not going to sleep on them.  Nor was he.  He has the same aversion to this situation as I do:  we don’t know who or what may have died/been born on those beds and so they had to go. When Tammy came for Trash Out and said in her man-voice “What about these mattresses?,”  both Mike and I sang a chorus of “BUH BYE!” in harmony.

So there are no beds.  Which means we need beds.

“That’s impossible.”

I’m confused.  He wants the Trash Out beds back?

“No, that’s disgusting.”

“So we should buy some new beds.”

“No.  That’s impossible.  How would we get them here?”

“We’d have them delivered.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Fine.  Why don’t we just bring some beds from home and get new beds delivered there?”

“That’s impossible.  How would we get the old beds here?”

“We could borrow your Dad’s truck.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“We could rent a Uhaul.”

“That’s impossible.  You can’t drive a Uhaul up north.”

“Why not?”

“Because.  Just trust me on this.”  (that’s the WORST!  I hate that!)

“So it’s not possible to get beds to our cabin?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Are you saying that we should sleep on the floor?”

“Stop it.”

“It sounds to me like you’re suggesting that people up north don’t have access to beds.  Which means that all the people north of Duluth are sleeping on the floor.  This can’t be true. I know that people up north sleep on beds.  Where did they get them?  Please explain yourself, sir. “

“……….that’s impossible.”

So I do what I often do in these situations:  I wait for him to go out of town and then do it by myself.   One time, he went to China for two weeks and I painted the fireplace turquoise.  It was VERY possible!  And it was awesome.

I make the executive decision to pull over at the nearest Slumberland and tell the nearest salesperson  “this one, this one and this one, here’s my credit card, deliver them to this address, full disclosure, it’s in the boonies, is that ok?”

And Slumberland lady says “They sleep on beds in the boonies, too, ya know.”  And I’m like “I KNOW!  THAT’S WHAT I TOLD HIM!”

And then all we have to do is wait for the delivery……. let’s just see how that works out.

(Photo credit:  Ditte Isager)

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