I slurped my left-over broccoli soup dinner, “Huh?” I replied to the WideEyedSpouse.

“It’s like we’re on the world’s slowest rotating restaurant,” the Spouse repeated. I gazed at him, thinking maybe those Left Hand Milk Stout Nitros were hitting him a little hard. They could rotate a room I guess.

The Spouse had been thinking about the fact that we live on this spinning ball in the middle of an awesome hugeness and that gravity is the only reason we aren’t flung off. After dinner, he stood in the driveway while the dogs had an evening yard romp and stared at the stars. “If you look long enough, you can see that they are moving and that we are moving.”

I don’t know what happened to the Spouse that he had a moment of awareness of the vastiness. Maybe it was triggered by our camping trip to the wilds a week or so ago. The night sky was huge, the Milky Way looked like mist flowing off the mountains around us. A couple of satellites zinged past, probably recording our campfire for the NSA. Walking from the campsite to the bathhouse was an exercise in balance, not because we got into the wine (ok, maybe a little), but because the stars and planets and satellites and UFOs for all I know were larger and brighter and more real than the crappy dirt road our Crocs were scuffling on.

The dogs and walked the neighborhood this morning and I tried to feel the spinning planet, the wide universe. I thought about overcoming gravity and immediately worried about how Hamish and Miss Tibbit might engineer, ah, elimination, without it. Then I sat at my desk and commenced with the workday. In one of the world’s million slowly rotating offices.