by cindy

In June, Dear Dave and I celebrated our forty-third anniversary. While I could use this time to elaborate on those forty-three years, going into detail on, oh, mushy stuff, I will spare you all of that by simply saying it has been quite the ride.

More impressive, I believe, is the fact that after all these years, we finally did it: we actually purchased each other the SAME DAMN CARD.


I would like to tell you that we exchanged the cards over candles, champagne and lobster (I do love lobster), accompanied by an evening of laughter as we reminisced about all the delights that may (on occasion) occur throughout forty-three years of marriage, followed by declaring our undying love and pulsating passion for one other, pledging to make the forty-fourth year our very best by far. Yes, well, I would love to tell you all of that. But. This is what really happened:

We were busy. I forget what caused the scramble to get things done (me inside, he outside), but we were working all day trying to accomplish our ever-so-urgent goals. No candlelight supper. No champagne, no lobster nor declarations of anything. To be truthful, it was Dear Dave who presented the card first. As I opened it, I apologized profusely for not having one to give him. (Yes, I know but I. WAS. BUSY. Remember?)

It was a great card. A perfect choice.

Actually, I vaguely felt like I had seen it before.

Some two weeks later I understood why, as I found my card—the one that I had purchased months before and had hidden out of sight in my underwear drawer. Yep. The same exact card. So I gave it to him. Late.

I can only hope to do better next year. And yes, next year: LOBSTER.