For months, Hubby and I have been competing against one another in an 11-game Scrabble tournament, and last week marked our final showdown. While I’m usually a sharp player, pulling out dazzling triple-word moves and strategizing with the best of them, I hadn’t done so well this round. I started off poorly and kept racking up three- and four-point words while Hubby’s words were in the 20- and 30-point regions. My mood grew gloomier with each passing play, and I couldn’t wait to finish the tournament and accept my defeat gracefully.
By the end, though, things had started to shift. His scores had slumped lower and lower and mine doggedly got a little bit higher. In the end, it looked like I might even have a fighting chance.
And then I finished calculating the scores. Somehow, miraculously, I came through and won the game with a two-point word.
This past Friday, I woke up to my grand prize: Breakfast in bed. While I lounged lazily beneath the dark blue sheets, Hubby was downstairs working away in the kitchen. Finally, at long last, he came into the bedroom bearing a tray full of utter breakfast perfection: A fluffy round Belgian waffle with a blossom of butter in the center, a big scoop of buttery scrambled eggs, and a glass of orange juice.
I never knew victory could be so delicious.