Finally, it was Friday night and Betty was thrilled that her husband Don, a senior associate at Mega Firm, would make it home by 7:00 so they could go out to dinner together. Don finally arrived. They jumped in the Audi and sped off down the street. “Where should we go?” Don asked.
“You decide.”
“How about Chilis and/or Outback ….” Don responded. They may drive an Audi, but they still liked the chain restaurants. But Betty had a bigger problem: Where did Don want to eat?
“So, do you want Chilis or Outback?” she asked for clarification.
“Yeah, Chilis and/or Outback…”
“You want both?”
“I like both.”
“But where do you want to eat?”
“Don’t care.”
“Obviously. Just pick one.”
“I did–”
“You didn’t. You said Chilis ‘and/or’ Outback. That doesn’t make any sense. ‘Or’ would mean one or the other—that you’re fine with either; ‘and’ would mean that you want to go to both and that’s not going to happen.”
“Listen, I write contracts every day using ‘and/or’—it makes perfect sense. It’s in every form that I’ve read and used in the five years I’ve been at Mega Firm. Sterling Goodfellow uses it all the time and he’s a senior partner … has a 23,500 square foot log cabin near Bear Lake,” he glanced confidentally at her, then back to the road. “It’s a legal term.”
“It’s stupid. Take me home,” Betty demanded. At this moment she realized that her mom was right. She should have married Henry, an architect. He wasn’t afraid of commitment.