Forgotten date turns memorable
(Originally published December 2023)
Mark and I celebrated our 29th anniversary this past weekend. Things did not go the way I had planned.
We generally don’t make a big deal of our anniversaries, and I’m good with that. I like the idea of marking the date, but I don’t see the need for a huge fuss, like it’s some triumph after a hard-fought battle: “I honestly never thought we’d survive being shackled together for yet another grueling year, darling, but we did it. We did it!”
I can always remember our anniversary date because our wedding was the one day in my life I got to look and act like a fairytale princess. (I assume Mark had a nice time, too, but when’s the last time you heard of a man sending his wedding tuxedo out for long-term preservation?)
“Part of the joy of being married is sticking it to your life partner now and again. ”
Most years, I wish him a happy anniversary first thing in the morning, to allow him to save face in case the date has slipped his mind. This gives him a chance to say it back, or to go out and buy a $9 greeting card inscribed with a bland, generic sentiment, to which he adds, “Love, Mark.”
I’ve always found the card thing perfunctory, at best. I finally told him if he couldn’t be bothered to write something himself, I’d rather he didn’t waste the money on a card. So now he doesn’t.
Whatever.
This year, we were having dinner with friends on Saturday, which was Dec. 9. My friend asked whether our anniversary wasn’t coming up, and Mark said, “Yes, on the 12th.”
Note: Our anniversary is Dec. 10.
I could have corrected him. But in that moment, I remembered that part of the joy of being married is sticking it to your life partner now and again. So instead, I said, “Wrong.”
He was taken aback.
“Are you sure?”
I sat smiling, delighting in the evil pleasure of putting him on the spot.
Our friends tried to help.
“It wouldn’t be the 12th,” one said, “because that would be 12/12, and you’d remember that.”
He pondered that for a while and then concluded, “OK, but I’m pretty sure it’s in the first half of the month.”
I nodded.
“And today’s the ninth.”
“Yes.”
“And I haven’t missed it yet.”
“No.”
But I wouldn’t give him more than that. He was panicking. And I was loving it.
The next morning, I did not wish him a happy anniversary. Like a cat with a hapless mouse, I wanted to bat him around for a bit.
Lying in bed, he said, offhandedly, “Hey, you know what today is?”
Had it clicked? I waited.
“It’s the last day of muzzleloading season,” he said.
Ha. That poor sap.
We had plans to go out to breakfast, and this is where I would get him. I would sneak away from the table and ask our waitress to, the next time she came around with coffee, wish Mark a happy anniversary.
Boom.
I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when I humiliated him in front of her. What a wonderful anniversary gift that would be (for me).
Once we got to the restaurant, I charged toward the one empty booth. I needed to secure the rear-facing seat so he’d have to sit with his back to the wait station. My scheme was coming together nicely.
I was about to slide into my seat when I came up short. There was something on the table: a large flower arrangement.
What was this?
Drawing closer, I spied an envelope among the blossoms. And on it, in Mark’s handwriting, was one word: “Jessie.”
I gasped.
It turned out that on Saturday, several hours before posing as a contestant on the “Clueless Husband” gameshow with our friends, Mark had driven this bouquet to the restaurant, arranging with the waitstaff to have it ready when we arrived in the morning.
Caught off guard by this romantic gesture/diabolical ambush, I said the only words that came to mind: “You [expletive deleted].”
Cheering, he ran a victory lap around the restaurant, high-fiving patrons before coming to sit across from me.
And there was more.
While the message in the card ended with the usual “Love, Mark,” this time the words were handwritten. Over several paragraphs, they listed all the reasons he loved being married to me.
Reader: I cried in front of a restaurant full of people.
Fine. He had won—this time. But I promise: next year, I will have my revenge.
