My nature-hating wife has a refrigerator magnet that shows a happy 1950s woman saying, "I love not camping!"
You know what I love these days? Not talking.
Or rather, not having to talk about breaking news.
For a whole week, a fortnight ago, I was so glad I'm not Gloria Borger, Chris Cuomo or any of my Facebook friends whose solemn duty it is to issue hot takes on breaking news, like the urgent matters in Iran.
Oh, I grumbled a few things to my wife, of course, while whipping together a stir fry. "Stupid fuckin' Trump." And when the first missiles were coming our soldiers’ way from Iran, my 16-year-old daughter asked if we should be nervous. (I told her probably, yes. Looks like I was wrong as usual!)
But it doesn't matter, because mostly—and publicly—I exercised my freedom to keep my yap shut, and see how the story developed. In doing so, I avoided making predictions that would be contradicted before I pushed "send," making tiresomely obvious references to Wag the Dog and contributing to the overall sense that everyone is talking and no one is thinking, or listening.
I actually took pleasure in the sound of my own silence. (And I bet you took pleasure in it, too.)
This week, I'm looking forward to not having to write about the impeachment hearings unless I think I have something uniquely useful to contribute.
But maybe you're more like my wife, who once honked her horn at someone for so long that I asked her: How do you decide how long to honk?
She said, "I honk until I'm not mad anymore."