When Hubba-hubba used to work until midnight, the evenings were mine to do as I wished. When the seasons shifted, so did my dinnertime to accomodate the loss or gain of light, or just because I felt like it.
But now that he is a bona fide desk jockey, dinner is immovable. There is a carefully orchestrated timetable that goes into effect once he arrives home, because he wants an actual dinner instead of something I throw in the microwave to heat up. Huh. The nerve.
Anyhoo, the sun is going down much faster than it used to, and we are plunged into semi-darkness as we are seated at the table.
I love the earth so much that I have compact flourescent light bulbs in my ceiling fan that is over our kitchen table. And as much as I feel good about my low carbon emissions, I hate eating under them. We are just so close to them, and really, flourescent lighting doesn't do anybody any favors in the looks department. I'd rather the first really good glimpse my husband gets of me after a long day of slogging through emails not be one that shows every wrinkle and flaw. Go ahead, call me vain. I dare you.
So last week, as the CFL's glared from above, I got the bright idea to light the candle in the candleholder that always sits on the table.
Mr. Personality was transfixed. Normally any candles we have are lit after he goes to bed, so his exposure was limited. The concept is still fairly novel to him, and he is like a caveman, staring into the flame and thinking, "Fiiiiirrrre." He now insists that we eat with the candle lit every night.
Heck, candlelight even makes Hamburger Helper look pretty good, so imagine the wonders it must do for me.
And please, I don't want anyone commenting on how candles emit worse gases or whatever than a billion lightbulbs. Just allow me to sit in my vain bubble in peace.