“Sweetie, I have this great idea to get fit –” I began, tremendously excited.

“Shh. No more talking. Sleep.”

In the morning:

“Hey, I had this great idea for a plan to get fit. And do fun stuff together,” I said. “I think I’m going to call it Six Months to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse…”

“You’d need more than six months to really prepare for the zombie apocalypse,” he said. “At least a year.”

“Well, I like six months. If it were a Year to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse, I’d just procrastinate until the end of the year. Six months feels more immediate. I can’t think more than six months into the future, anyway.”

He looked at me dubiously.

“We can always do Six More Months to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse if we really feel we have to, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pause.

“And we should totally get a dog.”

“No.”

“We could exercise with it.”

“No.”

“And it could warn us of imminent zombie attack.”

“It would bark and give our location away.”

“Hmm. Well, how about those dogs that the Nazis nearly killed off during WWII? They’re really quiet…”

All of which, come to think of it, is pretty standard for a conversation in our household.