Eight Years Together, And I Still Like Him
Today is mine and the Palinode's eighth wedding anniversary. This strikes me as odd. Eight? Eight? EIGHT YEARS? But I still like him! Aren't we supposed to be kind of bitter by now? Because I'm pretty sure we're not bitter. In fact, I am still more than a little in love with him. I think he might still have a thing for me, too, if I've been reading his
ass grabbing romantic overtures correctly.
We must be one of those lucky few, because this morning I jumped out of bed to make him eggs, bacon, and coffee to eat in bed with me. Of course, I did all that after I downed enough ibuprofen to numb three large men who have been kicked in the junk, because I have this thing which I am presently calling The Flu but may later be calling The Plague That Made Me Saw Off My Own Head.
And yet, I cooked breakfast and cuddled, because this is what love makes us do even when we're wondering how the hell the roof of our mouth is able to throb so much.
I eventually took a short walk in order to procure us some spicy italian meat sandwiches for our afternoon meal, which food I chose partially because I went to the doctor yesterday, and when she said that my iron levels might be low, I said that that happens a lot, and then she looked at me and said "Why? Don't you eat meat?" with her eyebrows all bunched together like vegetarianism might just be the weirdest thing she's ever heard of, and I said that I did eat meat but not that much of it, and ever since I walked out of her office all I want to do is suck the blood out of a rare freaking steak.
I took photos on my way to the deli, because grey days mean no shadow, which can lead to some pretty crisp looking pictures, but then the sky started to pelt me and my camera with pebble-sized chunks of ice. Ice. HAIL IN JUNE CAN KISS MY SWEET, WHITE BUTT.
So, I spent five or so minutes standing under a tree and waiting for lightning to strike me dead. It didn't.
All was made better, though, when I finally arrived at the deli, and there was this entirely insane man there that they had hired to wash the interiors of the shop windows. He was singing the wrong lyrics to 70s rock ballads and occasionally stopping to tell whoever was nearest why his was the greatest job in the world. The guy who owns the deli said "You are the craziest window washer I have ever had", and the window washer said "I'm as crazy as I can be. Want me to sign your shorts?", and when the deli owner said that he didn't want him to sign his shorts, the window washer said "Oh, well. Your loss. You could have had a famous signature on your shorts". When I looked down, he was cleaning crud out of the corners of the windows with an old pair of underwear.
I was so drawn to the window washer's strangeness that I stayed too long and ended up spending $30 there.
This fever has my brain skating all over the place. This is supposed to be about our wedding anniversary, and I was going to wax all rhapsodic about our unfailing love for each other. Crap. Well, I have until Saturday to make it up to him, because that is the day we are having a celebratory dinner and probably wine, and we'll play footsie under the table, and I'll annoy him by exclaiming several times how odd it is that eight years have gone by already, because I still like him, and I mean really like him, more than I did the day I married him, and life's looking pretty sweet if this is the way I get to be married and experience love. He makes getting older with him a propostion I don't want to pass up.
And now for some more ibuprofen. I don't plan on succumbing to The Plague That Made Me Saw Off My Own Head just yet.