With five years of marriage under our belts, I have survived well into my second term as Kara’s husband. If we’ve managed to hang onto it this long, though, it now seems unavoidable that we must surrender the title of newlyweds. Now we’re usedlyweds. Or like-newlyweds.
Kara and I have been married for so long, back when we were single, salads didn’t come in pre-made bags. You actually had to buy a head of lettuce and chop it up yourself with a sharp implement, like a caveman. Also, back in those days, people were cruelly forced to watch rectangular movies on square TVs. They were truly times to try couch potatoes’ souls. But we persevered so that our children may never have to worry about their aspect ratios.
The traditional gift for a fifth wedding anniversary is something wooden. Because we’re pining for each other? Because we make each other sappy? Who decides on these random materials for anniversary gifts, I have no idea, but Kara and I have been playing along for the past few years. After days spent perusing wooden jewelry she’d never wear, wooden statuettes she’d be embarrassed to display and wooden furniture we didn’t need, I realized that, oftentimes, trees are made of wood.
“It needs to be a weeping tree?” asked the man at the nursery.
“Yeah, my wife has always wanted a weeping tree in the yard,” I said.
For a moment, I thought that perhaps the idea of planting something that stands in our front yard, permanently weeping, didn’t have quite the symbolic thrust I was shooting for, but if the past five years have taught me anything, it’s that, um. Well, they haven’t really taught me anything, but Kara liked weeping trees so that’s what she was getting.
The tree wasn’t the only thing weeping when the truck dumped her gift in our driveway and I saw how big the hole needed to be. If the root ball had been an asteroid headed for Earth, it would have inspired at least three Jerry Bruckheimer movies.
I spent several hours in the yard swinging my pick and sinking my shovel, giving myself many days of wedded blisters. By the time the hole was wide enough and deep enough to even consider accommodating the root ball, it was large enough to bury Grimace.
Incidentally, why did McDonald’s choose to name one of its most prominent mascots Grimace? Of all the names it could have chosen, Grimace just seems like about the last one you’d ever want associated with your food. “Hi, kids, meet Grimace. And here are his friends, Chagrin and Irritable Bowel. Now let’s eat!”
Kara really liked both the tree and the backbreaking manual labor I got for her, and we’re hoping that this outdoor plant will fare better than our indoor ones. The survival rate seems to increase greatly when we let our plants go feral.
As far as keeping up the tradition of choosing gifts based on traditional anniversary materials, I’ m not so sure. The gift for the sixth anniversary is something either candy or iron. “Happy Anniversary! I couldn’t decide between a bag of Skittles or a fire poker, so I went ahead and got you both.”
I’ll have to be careful next year if I go the fire poker route. If you’re going to give a bad present, it’s a good rule of thumb to make sure it’s not something that could be brandished.
You can elect Mike Todd to another term at mikectodd@gmail.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment