The Things We Almost Miss

It was one of the last few nights of our seven-day cruise, and we couldn't decide what to do. My husband wanted to see a show. My friend wanted to meet for drinks. I was somewhere in the middle, trying to figure out how to make both work.

Eventually, we landed on what seemed like a reasonable compromise. We'd meet our friends for drinks in one of the open lounges where a pianist was playing.

Perfect.

We found a sitting area large enough for all of us to be comfortable but small enough that we could still hear each other over the music. We ordered drinks, toasted friendship and new adventures, and settled in.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the evening. We talked about everything and nothing at the same time, the way you do with people you don't have to entertain.

The pianist played in the background.

Then my husband made a comment about the music. By this point, the pianist had started singing. He played beautifully. The singing changed things. The tempo had slowed considerably, and a familiar song had become something entirely different.

My husband's observation was honest, and funny.

Unfortunately, once he pointed it out, the rest of us couldn't stop hearing it. Suddenly we were all paying attention.

Painful attention.

We giggled.

Then the pianist attempted an upbeat Billy Joel song that, in my opinion, has no business being played at any speed other than the one Billy Joel intended. That did not help. Now every song had our attention.

We were analyzing tempos. Recognizing songs several measures later than we probably should have. Looking at each other whenever another familiar song wandered off in an unexpected direction.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I started talking about chocolate martinis. I wanted one. Our waiter told me they weren't on the menu, but he'd make me one.

Yay!

A little while later, he returned carrying what looked like a masterpiece.

It was beautiful.

A chocolate martini topped with foam, with three perfect chocolate hearts drawn one above the other. I admired it. I probably admired it longer than necessary. Then my friend, who was sitting directly across from me, reached over without saying anything and turned my glass 180 degrees.

I looked down.

Apparently masterpieces depend heavily on perspective.

From her side of the table, my three beautiful chocolate hearts looked remarkably like three butts.

I stared at them. Then at her. Then back at my drink.

There really wasn't much to say.  So I picked up my glass and toasted the table.

"To my chocolate butts."

That was it. The table erupted. Not a polite chuckle.  Not the little laugh you give someone because they've said something mildly amusing. The kind of laughter that takes over your entire body. Someone would begin to recover, look at the drink again, and we'd lose it.

We were crying. Rolling around in our seats trying to breathe.

The strange versions of familiar songs continued in the background while six grown adults completely lost control over three chocolate hearts that looked like butts.

It was ridiculous.

It was perfect.

Later that night, as my husband and I walked back toward our cabin, I was still smiling. Only a few hours earlier, I'd been debating what we should do that evening. The show? Drinks? Which would be more fun? Which should we choose?

It had seemed important enough at the time to require discussion but in that moment, I found myself thinking about what would have happened if we'd chosen differently.

We probably would have enjoyed the show. Our friends would have had their drinks. Everyone would have had a perfectly nice evening.

We simply would never have known what we'd missed.

That's the strange thing about some of the best moments of our lives. They don't announce themselves. They aren't necessarily the things we planned months in advance or paid the most money to experience. Sometimes they're hiding inside an ordinary evening when nothing particularly important is supposed to happen.

A comfortable chair. Friends around a table. A familiar song played at a very unfamiliar speed. A waiter kind enough to make something that wasn't on the menu. Three chocolate hearts viewed from the wrong direction.

Laughter so pure that everyone at the table is crying.

I couldn't have planned that night if I'd tried. I almost chose something else. Maybe that's why I keep thinking about it.

There are moments we know we're going to remember while we're living them. Then there are the ones that quietly become memories before we realize anything important is happening.

Hours earlier, I had been trying to decide how we should spend our evening. By the end of it, I had my answer. Sitting in a lounge with people I love, laughing until I couldn't breathe over a glass decorated with three chocolate butts.

I can't believe I almost missed it.