I am complaining about my luck to my beloved. “Every project of mine has turned into a dud,” I sigh. “The same holds for my research, my writing, my painting, my green activism—duds galore.” When I pause for a breath, she jumps in: “You’re ahead of the times.” “Yup,” I chuckle, “by three-thousand years, no less!” Now she chuckles, and we change the subject.