Today The Mister is in the mountains, snowshoeing. I am concentrating on the fact that he will most certainly come back alive.

To distract myself, I watched Silkwood, an ’80’s flick, starring Meryl Streep and Kurt Russell.

The movie had a scene where Meryl had just had a lovely evening with Kurt, and he was showing her out the next day. He looked all lovey-dovey at her while she asked him to do some chores before she returned that night. She said something goofy, they both laughed, she waved good bye, got into her car, and drove off.

I thought, this scene smacks of foreshadow. She’ll get into a car accident and die. Cutting away from the car wreckage, they’re going to replay this scene, only it will be in slow motion, with sappy music.

And that’s exactly what they did.

And that’s why it’s Hollywood’s fault I always think The Mister is going to unwittingly snowshoe himself off a cliff–because each time we have a tender moment, I think about how heart wrenching it would be to rewatch it in slow motion to a bittersweet soundtrack.

This charming quirk of mine takes many forms. He likes to travel, and I’m convinced his plane will crash every time. He loves to camp, and I’ve imagined him getting struck by lightening. The first time I said “I love you” was the night before he was going to foray into the woods, and I was traveling overseas to visit a friend. I had to say it then or never, because it was so obvious that if I managed to survive my plane ride, he would most certainly be eaten by bears.

I like to think of this irrational fear as the last bit of housekeeping I should tend to before I procreate. I can imagine it translating into a desperate need to keep my child safe, at the expense of not letting him do outrageous things like ride a bike, go to school, or eat peanuts.