"I swear it's level," I shot back, level-in-hand.
"It doesn't look all that level - it looks like the left side's just a bit higher than the right." Hands-on-hips, covered in small splotches of paint, my wife had assumed the 'I'm going to win this argument' pose. I sighed and let a beat pass before responding.
"By all objective measure, the painting is level. The bubble was dead center. The measuring tape shows that it's exactly the same distance from both floor and ceiling on both sides. This thing would win awards for being level. I should win an award for leveling it! I can't believe you don't agree."
"Well, it still doesn't look level to me, and that's what matters." I knew where this was going to end and I knew I had to play my part. After one more round of objection, I gave in and began to move the damn thing around. Naturally, I had to move it as she watched from a few feet away - had she adjusted it it wouldn't count as a win in her book.
"There! Perfect!" She delighted after fifteen minutes of directing me to bump one corner, then the other. I was released from service, having hung an obviously crooked painting. It was a small price to pay for a happy wife.
A fifteen minute sprint, written 8 October '17.