Monday, October 24, 2011

I Love You Every Day, Will

Saturday was our seven year anniversary. Katie slept over at her cousins' house, so it was date night for Will and me. Stop right there. You can get the bow chica wow wow out of your head. I know you're thinking it, and I'm certainly not judging you. Under normal circumstances, it's perfectly reasonable to assume a wedding anniversary is celebrated by a couple exploring each other's bodies in an orgasmic state of harmony. But it wasn't like that. I passed out. Again. Just like our wedding night. If our marriage were a TV show it would be a sitcom. Something always foils our plans. Even when we do things the way I like and have no plans. Our TV show might not win awards for romance or drama, but it'd be good for a laugh.

Will and I had an unconventional wedding, so it makes sense that our anniversaries also defy custom. Part of the problem is I'm no good at special occasions. I love Will every day. More and more each day. So I don't quite get why I have to buy him a present or give him a card one day of the year so he knows how much I love him. I prefer to not make such a big deal about it and show him I love him every day.

But I married a romantic. So I go along. I celebrate. I try my best. But somehow I always jack shit up.

I usually buy him the wrong kind of chocolates. Will is very particular about what kind of chocolates he deems worthy enough to help celebrate such a special occasion. I saved a picture of them on my computer so I'll quit getting him the wrong kind and then yelling at him for being so picky and then feeling guilty when he says stuff like, "I'm picky enough to have picked you." It only took me five anniversaries to figure out I need photographic documentation to get it right.


Last year we spent lots of money on a cool eco-friendly hotel room with a private hot tub. I don't know how a hot tub can be eco-friendly. I hope it has nothing to do with recycling the water used by other guests.

The year before that I learned that the word "Jacuzzi" does not imply hot tub with massaging jets. Apparently "Jacuzzi" is a brand name. A brand name for a company that manufactures all kinds of bath tubs. Even the kind without massaging jets. So when you call a fancy schmancy hotel in a cool college town within driving distance of your suburban home, remember to ask not, "Does the room have a private jacuzzi?" Instead, be clear. "Does the room have a private hot tub with massaging jets?" Then you won't spend the first hour of your stay talking to the manager about how they can make your experience better when the one thing you thought you asked for isn't in the overpriced room.

But this anniversary I had no one to blame but myself. I can't believe a joker like me is trusted to manage anyone. I'd offer myself a bottle of champagne like the manager of the fancy schmancy hotel did when he screwed up, but that would just make my situation worse.

It started at a fabulous locally-owned, cozy Italian restaurant. I had two glasses of the house red wine with my chicken spiedini. On the way home after our romantic dinner, we stopped by the liquor store up the street from our house. I bought a bottle of French wine because it was fairly inexpensive and had a rating of 90 from some so-called afficionado. Or no, that's what you call people who smoke cigars. Wine connoisseur I believe is what I'm going for. "Enthusiast" would work too. I have no idea what kind of wine is good. The liquor store owner's teenager could be assigning scores to the wine and I would know no difference.

When we got home we played drunken chess. Yes, I said chess, not chest. Will was feeling old school, so he drank Schlitz beer in the Schlitz glasses his dad had found in his grandma's basement.

So there we were, an old married couple, drinking Schlitz and cheap wine, playing chess. That's what I remember.

I woke up with a headache. I was lying next to Will in bed, naked. I couldn't remember how I got there. I tried to trace back my memory of our anniversary night, but the fog would not lift from my brain past our chess match. I remembered winning, kind of, only because Will pointed out the move I was about to make would put my king in danger. I remember feeling really good. Not that I won, but that my husband chivalrously prevented me from losing. It made me feel good thinking about it in bed too, listening to Will softly snore. But I felt a little uneasy not remembering how I got there.

I put my arm around Will and kissed his cheek. I didn't know if it was a good morning kiss or a makeup kiss. He smiled. I sighed. Then we laughed together as Will poked fun at me. He told me the truth of what happened after our chess game. I got frisky, we made it to bed, I passed out, literally on top of him.

"Did I head butt you?" I covered my eyes, peeking through my ring finger and tall man to see Will's reaction.

"No, your head went - splat!" Will patted his right shoulder.

I cringed. "I passed out, just like our wedding night?!"

"Yep. You know you're going to have to blog about this?" Will teased.

"No, no! I'm too embarrassed." My hands still covered my face.

"You better share this story with the world before I get a chance to. I'll make shit up..."

"Oh, I'm such a horrible wife!" I half laughed and half cried.

Will rolled over and kissed me, looked me in the eye, and said, "No. We're perfect for each other."

Thankfully he's right once again.

So here it is, world. I love my husband even though on special occasions I'm a bad lay.

Will got up and went to work. Before leaving to pick up Katie, I looked in the mirror and realized I wasn't as hungover as I thought I was. My glasses sat crooked on my face. So no, not everything in the world was as tilted as it seemed, but it's definitely time for a new pair of glasses.

As I stared at my face, I remembered waking up at some point the night before because something was poking me. My glasses and I have been together longer than Will and I have, and I think they're finally sick of me falling asleep on them. I better cut back on the wine before Will gets sick of it too.