In the zone

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, my wife was “in the zone.” That is, she was determined to do most of the Thanksgiving cooking and everybody had best watch out and get out the way if they knew what was good for them.

No grown children in the kitchen, no grandkids coming in or out, no door opening or slamming, no questions, no snacks, no phone calls. She was “in the zone.

By “in the zone” I mean a state of concentration so deep that a meteor the size of a Volkswagen hitting the house wouldn’t be noticed by her at all.

When I first met Cindy she was in the zone, though I didn’t recognize it. We met at East Tennessee State University in a speech class.

On the first day of class we had to each introduce ourselves and she said, “I’m Cindy Douglas, I live in Colonial Heights, graduated from Sullivan Central, and attend Colonial Heights Baptist Church.”

I dated a young lady that lived in the same area, graduated from the same school, and attended the Colonial Heights Presbyterian Church. So, after class, I asked Ms. Douglas if she knew Donna (last name omitted because I have learned better).

She looked at me as though peering through a fog and finally said curtly, “No,” and walked away without a backwards glance. I immediately pronounced her the biggest snob I had ever met.

I did not take rejection well in those days. I would learn later that, when she wasn’t in the zone, she was talkative, witty, intelligent, and not snobby at all.

Being able to get in the zone has its advantages. When she went to nursing school, even though she had two children at home, she made a 4.0 in her ASN degree. Later, working as a nurse full time, she went back to school for her BSN. Again, she made a 4.0.

When she moved into her MSN program, she dropped her working status to part-time and continued her 4.0 GPA. Finally, during her rigorous Ph.D. program, she worked full-time again and finished with — what else? — a 4.0.

The zone has had its downside however. “Hey Mom, I’m going down the street to see Billy.” “Hmm? Okay, whatever.” The kid could have asked to go bungee jumping and she’d never have known.

“Mom, I know it’s only 8 a.m. but can I eat some ice cream and cake?” “Hmm? Okay, whatever.”

“Mom, I’m going to hitch hike across country naked except for a guitar.” “Hmm? Okay, whatever.”

The boys knew when to ask for the normally unattainable. When she was in the zone, anything was possible. Except when the zone included cooking.

When Cindy was in the zone and baking, the kitchen looked like a suicide bomber strapped 50 pounds of flour to his body and exploded. If she was cooking a Sunday meal, then pots, pans, and cans were everywhere. If it happened to be Thanksgiving or Christmas, entering the kitchen could be lethal — the trespasser might get put in the oven by mistake. But, man, would the meals be wonderful!

Sometimes, it’s odd living with someone who is so thoroughly able to get into the zone. I have carried on conversations for hours only to find that she was in the zone and didn’t hear a word I said.

Once in awhile, even today, I’ll ask a question at the wrong time and she will look at me, just like the first time I met her, as though peering through a fog, give some answer that doesn’t fit the question and walk away without a backwards glance.

It’s at times like that that I want to hold her close and whisper, “Honey, I’m going to buy a new Harley-Davidson motorcycle, okay?”

“Hmm? Okay, whatever.”