Dear Bean,

See, this is the problem I have with anniversaries.  I should be getting ready for a wonderful, romantic evening with you, where we go out to dinner, or a movie, or something anniversary-ish like that.  It would be really fun to go out and celebrate the fact that four years ago we were exchanging our vows inside of a too-hot courthouse while my mom channeled her inner paparazzi and took pictures of your ear wax. 

Unfortunately, life is too busy.

I’ve got tons of stuff to do work today – I don’t think I’m going to get it all done in time before my boss comes back, and that’s stressing me out.  I suppose I could try to make a big, fancy dinner to show you my love, but I made plans with a friend to meet up at Westminster Mall and let the boys run around and get their energy out.  Besides, I’m not really in the mood to cook, and you’re going to be stuck sitting through whatever boring class it is you have on Wednesday nights (Strategy and Policy, I think?) and you won’t be home until late. 

If this were a movie, when you came home from class I’d be there to greet you at the door in some kind of filmy negligee, my hair shiny and straight, my mouth quirking at the corners as I lead you into the bedroom by your tie (I know you don’t actually wear a tie to work, but just work with me here.) 

Unfortunately, I’m not a night person – I’m a morning person.  By the time you get home, probably after 10:00 pm, if I am still awake I will be tired and grumpy.  My hair will be in a messy ponytail, and I won’t be wearing a negligee.

In fact, come to think of it, I don’t even own a negligee.  I look stupid in them – they don’t make them for women who are tall, so they don’t fit quite right and just look awkward on me.  I’m sure if I bought an expensive one it might fit better, but  I can’t see wasting that much money on something I’m barely going to wear.  I could get a decent pair of jeans for that price, you know.  I guess I could go buy it at Walmart…. But honestly, lingerie from Walmart just sounds kind of gross.  Besides, if I told you where I bought it from you’d probably get angry at me “supporting the Chinese”, and the mood would be ruined.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.  So, it doesn’t really matter whether I have anything sexy to wear or not, because I’m going to be too tired by the time you come home, and you know I get grumpy when I get tired.  In the interest of honesty, though, if you were to come home early from class it probably wouldn’t get much better.  I’m in a grumpy mood today.  It doesn’t seem right to be grumpy on our anniversary, but there you have it.  I’ve been waiting for my grumpiness to lift so I could write you a sweet, loving, heartfelt note, but it doesn’t appear to be going away anytime soon.

It’s not for lack of trying—I’ve actually been trying to come up with sweet nothings all day long.  You’re really good at writing love notes—- me?  Not so much. 

What, do you don’t believe that I’ve been trying?  Well, I have. After almost eight hours at work, here is what I have come up with:

Dear Joe,
I don’t like you at all today.  But I do I love you, even though you really got on my nerves when you wouldn’t let me use your cell phone last night.  Still, we’re married, and we’re stuck with each other through good, bad and annoying, so here’s to another year.

Love,
Becky

PS:  Heat up the rest of the cold spaghetti in the fridge when you come home tonight.  We need to eat it before it goes bad. 

I also came up with a couple of poems:

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
It’s our anniversary
I’m irritated with you

Violets are Blue
Roses are Red
Hooray.  We’re still married
Now I’m going to bed

Yeah.  Sorry.  I did warn you that I was grumpy.

Anyways, that’s all I’ve got today…. I know it kind of sucks as far as love notes go, so here are a couple of pictures of things you like to make it a little better:

Happy last-anniversary-spent-living-in-California.

I love you,
Becky

“I dunno, Bean, I’ve never really thought about it.  What would I do if you died?”

We lay on our backs in the dark, pondering in silence.

“It’s tough to say.  I love you, Bean.  What we have – the way it works between us?  Well, it’s really cool, and so much better than I imagined it would ever work out…. Oh, you know what I mean.  But I dunno… I don’t know if I would ever want to be married again.”

“Why, because it’s just been so terrible for you?  Awww, poor Becky…. just so burned in marriage….Being married is just so rough on her…..”

“No.  It’s not that.  I love you.  It works between us.  It’s just… being single is easier, ya know?  Marriage is a lot of work.”

“Yeah.”  He falls silent.  “I don’t think I’d want to marry again either.  I love you, Becky.”

“I love you too, Bean.”

“I’d miss you with all my heart, but yeah… you probably couldn’t get me to ink up on marriage again.  If you died,” he pauses, as if considering whether to go on.  “If you died, I could have the whole bed to myself.”

I’m not offended.  It’s just common sense.  Besides:

“On the other hand….I dunno, Bean.. what if I live until 90?  I don’t believe in screwing around outside of marriage, and 60 years is a long time to go without ‘lovin’, if you know what I mean.”

“Who are you going to be sleeping with?”  He sounds vaguely insulted.

I don’t know why he’s acting all hurt – he just killed me off so he didn’t have to share the covers.  I’m just admitting to a biological imperative that would be tough to ignore.  Sheesh.

“Bean, don’t be silly.  I’m just saying… imagine it.  If I died in a freak accident, you’re only thirty years old. After today you would never, ever, ever get any nookie again.  Not once.”  I’ve already told him that if I die he can find someone else to marry, but that he’s not allowed to sleep around. 

He pauses, considering. 

“Well, in that case, if (God forbid) you died, I think I’d go be a monk.”

I snort.  “Bean, you’d make a terrible monk.”

Now he sounds really insulted.  “And why is that?  I’d make a great monk.”  

“Really?  You seriously think you’d make a good monk?”

“Sure.  I could sit up there on my throne…. And order people around….”

“What?  Sweetie, monks are those guys that live in monasteries.  They are the ones who give up all their worldly goods, shave their heads, put on a scratchy brown robe and tend a garden with a bunch of other dudes.  What, are you going to grow vegetables to help the poor while maintaining a vow of silence?”

He pauses.

“Oh.  Uh, yeah.  I’d make a terrible monk.”

The bedroom fills with a comfortable silence.

“Then what are those guys called that I’m thinking about?  The ones that have the lavish robes, who sit on a chair and boss their concubines around?”

“You mean like Genghis Khan?”

“Yeah!”  His tone brightens.

“They don’t exist anymore.  I don’t think they even have a term anymore.  I dunno…… Mongolian prince?”

“Yeah!  Mongolian prince.  That’s it.  If you died, then I would go become a Mongolian prince.”

“What about the kids?”

“They’re older in this scenario.  They’ve got their own lives.”

“So, what… you’d be sitting up in your throne with people cooking you lots of steaks, ordering your servants around and sleeping all sorts of concubines?”

“Yeah!”  He sounds happy.

Now I’m the one who is insulted.  The silence in the bedroom isn’t quite so comfortable anymore, and he can tell.

“It doesn’t count,” he says defensively.  “They’re just concubines.”

“Mmmm-hmmmm.”  I’m admitting that my flesh is weak and that I one day I may have to marry some sweet Christian guy with a pot belly and a nice smile, and suddenly the Bean is dressed in velvet robes, eating filet mignong while surrounded by dozens of nubile young slave girls?

“They’re just concubines!  It doesn’t count!”  He is starting to sound a little desperate.

“Mmmm-hmmmm.”

“It doesn’t!”

“Mmmm-hmmmm.”

There’s an awkward pause while he tries to come up with a way to take back what he just said.  Finally:

“I love you?”

“I love you, too.  But no – you are not allowed to become a Mongolian prince if I die.   Ever.   And I don’t know what imaginary dimension you were living in, but yes, concubines count.”

He gives a heavy sigh.  “Fine.  Concubines count.”

We roll on our sides, silence drifting like a warm blanket across the darkness, lulling us to sleep.