"Oh my god," she says. "It's hatching. Is it hatching? It's hatching. What do I do?"
I have no idea what the standard of care is for whatever it is that is hatching from the cartoon egg on her smartphone, but watching her try to live up to it is the most fun I have had in a neighborhood wine bar since the woman they call "Kate" insisted on showing us her rack. Repeatedly.
The egg-watcher, whose day job includes responsibilities like cross-functional team leadership and strategic planning, offers an explanation, just in case her diligence seems a little excessive: the last time she was in charge of a virtual hatchling, something went terribly, terribly wrong.
Whether through inattention or incompetence, she does not say, but whatever occurred, it left a small boy traumatized and a 40-something professional woman determined to make it up to him, whatever the cost in dignity and spilled wine.
It's tragedy, yes, but it also means I will be hanging on to my title a little bit longer. I am Slightly. Less. Ridiculous. It's a hair splitter, maybe, but it's enough.