Humor by John Christmann
Groom's Head Revisited
I, John, take you Leslie, to be my lawfully wedded wife . . .
Tomorrow is my wedding anniversary. It’s an important one. One that ends in a zero. I am not sure what to give my wife. I am not very creative with gifts.
I know from painful experience that an electronic appliance is out of the question. And anything too lavish is just not appropriate right now. We have already celebrated the light, man-made materials, even the shiny metal ones.
I wonder if there an anniversary year for bedrock?
Of course there will be a romantic dinner and a card, but to be honest, our marriage can’t be captured in a line of rhyming prose, no matter how inspiring it is.
I have to think about this. Really think.
to have and to hold. . . .
Sometimes I hug my wife in the kitchen for no good reason. I like to embrace her in front of the kids and then give her a big wet smooch that makes them squeal “eeeewwww!” They cover their eyes then watch with happy fascination through spread fingers. It is good for them to see affection. It certainly beats watching an episode of Desperate Housewives.
This doesn’t happen often enough. Maybe we should cook together more.
for better or for worse . . .
“Why does it have to be down all the time?” I want to know. “Why can’t we just leave it up? And don’t tell me it is because you might fall in. In the bathroom everyone has to look first. Even men.”
We have other disagreements too. Most are silly. Some seem important at the time, then reveal themselves to be silly. But a few have challenged our relationship. Or at least given me the opportunity to sleep fitfully on a cold couch and reexamine my position on things.
It took me a long time to understand that in a marriage, logical arguments do not rule the day. Listening does.
That’s the better part. And over its course, our marriage has only gotten better. Even when it started out great.
for richer, for poorer . . .
Several years ago when nothing could stop me I purchased a diamond broach for my wife to recognize a special birthday. I surprised her with it at a secluded table in an expensive restaurant in the city. There were tears in her eyes, but her smile was bigger than Manhattan.
These days, after I pay the bills, I threaten to sell off her closet one shoe at a time. Her smile is still bigger than Manhattan. It’s just a little slower coming.
We could open a lemonade stand together and still be happy. But I would rather not make do with lemons if I don’t have to.
in sickness and in health . . .
I am not a good patient. On my death bed my wife runs up and down the stairs because I always remember something else I want each time she arrives. I moan a lot and inform her that I am too weak to move. She offers remedies which I decline because I am not a good patient.
She wants to remind me that I only have a cold. I can see it in her eyes. But she doesn’t. Instead she brings me a glass of juice. Then she goes back down stairs to get some ice. And after, a piece of toast.
I am not a good nurse either. But if she were sick, I mean really really sick, I would be strong and take care of her.
That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t cry.
to love and to cherish . . .
Until I had kids I did not fully comprehend that passion is inextricably linked with babysitters and advanced planning. No one warned me that spontaneity goes into storage while you raise children. As long as we don’t lose the key I guess I am OK. But I certainly understand the appeal of sleep away summer camps.
Once, my wife went away to visit an old friend. While she was gone I drank orange juice from the carton because I could. That week I also killed a houseplant. I never even noticed. When they shrivel up it is too late; extra water doesn’t do much.
I missed her.
It’s funny how the better a marriage works, the more likely we are to take it for granted.
It’s funny how my wife reminded me of this when she came home to a disheveled house and a withered orchid.
from this day forward until death do us part.
I like the first part because it starts over again every day.
The second part I am not so comfortable with. Even with a will. There are lots of places we will go together holding hands, but death is probably not one of them. One of us must stay behind to water the plants and make sure the toilet seat is down. Spontaneity doesn’t matter much then. It’s sad.
Why can’t we just leave it from this day forward?
My wife and I married at the foot of a grand marble staircase which swept into an elegant Great Room on the first floor of a charming San Francisco Inn. There was a view outside to a garden bursting with spring flowers, and beyond to the Golden Gate Bridge. A piano player with shiny shoes and a boutonniere played When I Fall in love, It Will Be Forever. We stood beside a large, orchid-covered bird cage containing two vociferous song birds that gaily assisted us as we repeated our wedding vows in front of everyone who mattered.
I don’t know if the birds are still married. They didn’t seem to listen to each other very much.
The vows that we repeated were our own; we crafted some phrases specifically to fit our conception of marriage. But I honestly don’t remember what they were. We never wrote them down. I only remember kissing the bride.
So what does this say about me, that I can remember the little details of our wedding day but not what I promised my wife at the alter?
I guess it tells me what I already know. I am still a husband in progress.
I wonder if she will accept that on our anniversary.
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