Thursday, June 28, 2012

Lucky 13 - Our Anniversary

I used to consider myself a hopeless romantic.  I believed in true love, soul mates, everlasting devotion, kissing in the rain . . .  the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap . . . oh, wait.  That was from Bull Durham.  

Moving on . . .  

Now that Hubby and I have been married 13 years, I realize that all those things exist, but not without a lot of effort on the part of Husband and Wife.  (Or Husband and Husband, or Wife and Wife, or wherever your life leads you.)  Hubby and I are not overly demonstrative in our devotion to one another, and my not-so-secret plan to smother him in his sleep when he p*sses me off has been well-documented.  (Mostly this means that I'm going to have to come up with another plan . . . )  My point?  True love is tough to maintain.

The following poem is not gushy, mushy, sappy romantic, but I have always loved it.  Anyone who has read Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day knows that this woman knows of what she speaks.  

So on the occasion of our 13th Wedding Anniversary, (which was 2 days ago,) I am dedicating my favorite love poem to the man who calls me 15 times a day to ask me to get his dry cleaning, remind me when the contractor will be arriving, make sure I call the insurance company, ask me to run by the bank, announce that he needs razors, tell me he loves me.

- Judith Viorst

It is true love because
I put on eyeliner and a concerto and make pungent observations about the great issues of the day
Even when there's no one here but him,
And because
I do not resent watching the Green Bay Packers
Even though I am philosophically opposed to football,
And because
When he is late for dinner and I know he must be either having an affair or lying dead in the middle of the street,
I always hope he's dead.

It's true love because
If he said quit drinking martinis but I kept drinking them and the next morning I couldn't get out of bed,
He wouldn't tell me he told me,
And because
He is willing to wear unironed undershorts
Out of respect for the fact that I am philosophically opposed to ironing,
And because
If his mother was drowning and I was drowning and he had to choose one of us to save,
He says he'd save me.

It's true love because
When he went to San Francisco on business while I had to stay home with the painters and the exterminator and the baby who was getting the chicken pox,
He understood why I hated him,
And because
When I said that playing the stock market was juvenile and irresponsible and then the stock I wouldn't let him buy went up twenty-six points,
I understood why he hated me,
And because
Despite cigarette cough, tooth decay, acid indigestion, dandruff, and other features of married life that tend to dampen the fires of passion,
We still feel something
We can call
True love. 

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Be nice, kids.