Today marks 41 years of Happily Ever After at our house. Which means, of course, that we’ve both made the choice to stay in love every one of the past 14, 965 days. Okay, that number isn’t exact. You have to adjust for Leap Years. And for the days when one of us just couldn’t make it happen. But, still, that’s a lot of days.
You might expect us to have it all figured out by now, but my poor husband has simply learned that he will never figure me out. And I’ve learned the same thing. I’ll never figure me out either. So, we deal with it. And we laugh. And we forgive. And we hug in the hallways at work every chance we get. (a perk of having your husband for a boss.)
Wendell just finished reading a draft of my novel that is due to be published next summer. “You killed me off in a book again,” he said. “What is your fascination with main characters who are widows? Should I be checking my life insurance?”
“No!” I told him. “We are not the main characters in this book. We are that older couple that shows up part way through. The ones that are smooching at the Fourth of July picnic.”
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah, I get that. The ones that told the story about how long it took her to learn to cook.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said. Then I waited for his next comment about my brilliant plot or my great character development.
“But is it fiction,” he said, “because you never actually learned to cook.”
Make that 14, 964 days.
Happy Anniversary, Babe.