On Sunday, Rob, his sister Rindy (who flew in for a birthday surprise), and I went to the National Aquarium in Baltimore, a building full of fish, sharks, manta rays, frogs, turtles, dolphins, eels, sea anemone, and golden tamarind monkeys that simultaneously evoke one particular Boston terrier. Even some kelp got in on the act. I’m not normally one to appreciate the sea because if I wanted to behold creatures swimming around in excrement, I can think of more convenient ways. But call that excrement an ecosystem, and the Meyerhoffs will donate a wing. Ha ha.

It was the perfect day.

What the aquarium reminded me of, besides Goblin Foo, was the first guy I dated when I moved back to Baltimore from Chicago. It was the divers that did it, the ones suiting up to feed the sharks and mantas. The guy I dated was not a diver, but he did have a fetish that he revealed on one of my visits by excusing himself and returning, unexpectedly, in a rubber suit. It was a diving costume, minus the tank and flippers, and the pants ended at his knees. As unflappable as a boulder, I continued the conversation where we had left off, and we interacted “normally” for several minutes until he excused himself again. I didn’t know if he was going to reenter as a fireman or a maharaja; instead, he brooded for a while before his sulky voice floated down the stairs: “Touching was permitted!”

Luckily he said something, because I’m never sure of the etiquette in those situations.