As Dan handed me a second cup of coffee Sunday morning, his phone buzzed. He grimaced and, already knowing the answer, asked “an anniversary post on Facebook?”
I nodded while reaching for the he-gets-my-coffee-every-day-not-just-on-our-anniversary cup and sipped while he read my post which ended with: #only37togo.
See… I have commitment issues and told him early on that I could only promise 60 years, at which time we could reassess and make decisions about our future. Meanwhile, Cal gets visibly upset when I discuss my intention of leaving his father and going on the prowl at 87. He’s gonna slam me into an all-women nursing home, I just know it.
Anyway, Dan finished reading the post, threw his arm up on my shoulder then looked at me and, no shit, on. our.anniversary. said, “37 to go. We’ve already spent 23 years together. Thirty-seven more seems like so long.”
“Yeah? Ya think so?” I squinted and sorta cocked my head to the side, “Is this foreplay… cause I gotta say… it’s not really working for me.”
He blathered on about how he’s looking forward to having so much more time to love me.
Uhhhhhhh….huh.
Like I’m all tingly thinking about him tapping the salt shaker with his index finger for the next 2 score, give or take. What kind of person doesn’t just shake that sonuvabitch? It is, after all, a salt shaker. Nope… he just holds on to it with the other 3 fingers and thumb and bounces his forefinger up and down. AND! he knows it irritates me so he looks at me side-eyed while he’s doing it. Yeah, 37 years does seem like an awfully long time, asshat.
Despite the rough start, the day progressed in the usual way: gifts, cards, filling a dumpster… ok, the dumpster part is not the norm (and, now, looking back on it, I’m hoping it’s not some kind of weird, unintentional symbolism…).
The dumpster rental was actually a gift for his mom from Dan and his sister, Heidi. Their father, a wonderful man known for a quirkiness that was born out of genius, was a bit of a hoarder. The dumpster, along with our time helping to clear out 75 years of that-might-come-in-handy-some-day, was our Mother’s Day gift to her. The real kicker is: I’ve only stayed married to the man for this long to spite that woman and here I was spending my anniversary emptying her basement.
I kid… I’ve stayed married this long because I’m too lazy to get my own coffee in the morning.
And I’m certainly not trying to spite this lovely woman, who cried throughout our ceremony, underneath her black veil.
Can you tell she doesn’t read my blog?
No worries… she would chuckle if she did.
Our clean-out day/anniversary was actually a fairly nice day. Our emotions were all over the place, missing his dad, wondering how in the hell anybody could justify saving the things he saved, swimming in memories, drowning in questions we’ll never get answers to and floating in the calm that only love and a shared history can offer.
I did walk away with a little glimmer of hope regarding Dan’s (obviously inherited) hoarding tendencies, which are most visible in our basement (HIS basement… in that I refuse to go down there). His dad kept EVERYTHING but, he had it – to some degree – organized. Dan… not so much. But, after 5 days of dealing with his dad’s organized chaos, Dan has made a pact with himself to address his flotsam and jetsam lifestyle.
I’m not gonna lie: there’s a little part of me that longs for it all to stay, otherwise, I won’t be able to use ‘flotsam and jetsam’ nearly as much as I do. ‘Tidy basement space’ just doesn’t really light up my synapses the same way.
The most exciting part of our day, though, was when my husband and I retired to our bedroom.
Don’t get all nervous… my X-rating is strictly due to my propensity for using foul language. I never kiss and tell.
Bedtime was exciting because I gifted my husband a Purple mattress and pillows for our 23rd anniversary.
Incidentally, nothing says ‘I’d marry you all over again’ like an awkwardly-shaped, 145lb gift that he had to fight all the way from the shed to our bedroom and required us to spend the morning behind our bed, doing battle with dust bunnies that looked like they came straight out of Alice in Wonderland.
We were replacing a Sleep Number bed, which is an air-filled mattress that inflated to the desired level by way of a pump – that was hooked to the bed and the nearest outlet – thereby making it extremely difficult to move and clean behind that bastard.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Otherwise I’d have to come up with another reason for allowing 2 ponytail holders, 6 greeting cards, a sock (that didn’t belong to either of us), a stuffed alpaca, 3 magnesium tablets, a pen and the back of a remote to mar my carefully-cultivated dust garden. On the upside, should Dan actually get his basement squared away – it appears I’ll still have the opportunity to use the term ‘flotsam and jetsam’ here and there.
So, we slid into our 24th year of marriage on a new bed, resting our twitterpated heads on new pillows, under a new weighted blanket (the blanket itself was new, as was the experience of using a weighted blanket).
With all of this newness, I decided it was finally time to switch sides of the bed.
I’ve been suggesting this change for years. My side of the bed is nearest the door and it really bothers me that Dan is ok with me being in a position of danger like this… after all – as the man, shouldn’t he want to be killed first should we have an intruder?
Wait! I’ve changed my mind – nothing actually says ‘I would marry you all over again’ like me saying “I’d like for you to sleep on this side, so you die first.”
Now, for the record, you would think changing sides is merely a matter of moving a pillow or two, right?
Not so much.
We’ve attempted the switch no less than 7 times in the last few months. There are phone chargers, remotes (I get the channel-changing remote, he gets the tv-timer remote), slippers and years of habit all rolled into a specific side of the bed. I’ve never gotten further than standing next to his side of the bed, then backing out in a panic-stricken diatribe, “It’s too much. I can’t do it. Not tonight, I need more time….”
Last night, I pushed through. And you know what?
One night over there and I’m pretty fuckin’ certain that asshole is trying to get me killed. I mean, there is NO way an intruder would walk in and make a sharp turn to get to Dan’s new side. No, the intruder would take the easier route and go around the bed – to MY new side.. Now I understand why Dan was so willing to make the change…
He WANTED me over there.
He doesn’t know it yet, but… we’re switching back tonight.
And ya know what? He’ll just chuckle, grab his pillows and head back to his side. More than likely, he’ll stop in the middle to kiss me, with the smile still on his lips.
It’s just what he does. He listens to my whims, does everything in his power to make them happen then adores me all the more when they fail.
He’s the absolute love of my life and I hope the next 37 years last forever; I mean who the hell knows if the next guy is gonna make a decent cup of coffee or not.
