Tomorrow is my wedding anniversary, sixteen years, and they said it wouldn't last, actually I said that. I hate picking out anniversary cards for my husband or anybody else. Hallmark and associates portray married people as living in some idyllic storybook land clinking champagne flutes and staring longingly into each others' eyes. Anybody who has picked up her partner's sweaty underwear every single day knows the real truth exists far outside that nonsense theory.
Granted, earlier anniversay cards we gave each other included references to nudity and cute butt jokes, but those days have been sealed in an airtight box and shipped down river. Big Dave would love to see that card again but it ain't gonna happen, no sir, no way, uh-uh. And then there's the lengthy soliloquy poetry card festooned in flowers and white doves and intertwined rings that describe my husband as a cross between the archangel Gabriel and Antonio Banderas. I cannot be responsible for that much heavy emotion and false hope.
My card does not need to promise undying devotion or talk about my partner's positive attributes that are "as numerous as the stars in the heavens," because I am a woman of science and that's impossible. Instead, something simple and direct, "we'll have a nice meatloaf for dinner and then watch the news. Have a great day." Maybe a sunset on the front.
And I am fond of the big guy with the uncute butt. It cannot be helped, the passing of time and the sagging of skin and I can accept this but he needs to pick up his own goddamn underwear.
Granted, earlier anniversay cards we gave each other included references to nudity and cute butt jokes, but those days have been sealed in an airtight box and shipped down river. Big Dave would love to see that card again but it ain't gonna happen, no sir, no way, uh-uh. And then there's the lengthy soliloquy poetry card festooned in flowers and white doves and intertwined rings that describe my husband as a cross between the archangel Gabriel and Antonio Banderas. I cannot be responsible for that much heavy emotion and false hope.
My card does not need to promise undying devotion or talk about my partner's positive attributes that are "as numerous as the stars in the heavens," because I am a woman of science and that's impossible. Instead, something simple and direct, "we'll have a nice meatloaf for dinner and then watch the news. Have a great day." Maybe a sunset on the front.
And I am fond of the big guy with the uncute butt. It cannot be helped, the passing of time and the sagging of skin and I can accept this but he needs to pick up his own goddamn underwear.
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