As I cool down tonight, I'm working on the pitch to get my wife to go ahead and take me to the village after (or before) we give blood tomorrow, to lay in adequate supplies for my weekend.
She has heavy activity on Friday and Saturday both. She's gonna claim it won't be *that* heavy, and we can go to the village on Friday, and it will be fine.
"Baby, I know you have a lot of volunteers on Friday, and even more on Saturday, and everything is going to go very very well, so your estimates on availability are most likely perfect.
"But, my great love, surely, in 76 years, you have noticed that your relationship to linear time is . . . complex.
"My darling, I propose merely that we avoid even the very long-odds *possibility* that something will come up, and I will be bereft of you, beer, cigarettes, potato chips, and whiskey."