I surprised my wife yesterday evening with flowers, but the flowers weren't technically the surprise. Even though each day has the same number of seconds, minutes and hours in it, some feel longer, much longer, than others. And there are some, given the chance, we'd each like to forget. But not the one I chose to remember.
I waited until Monday was over, for all intents and purposes (just to make sure because I never praise the day until the evening arrives), to celebrate what I've taken to calling it the second best day of my life, that day, forty years ago, when I asked Sigrid to marry me. And, more importantly, it's when she said yes.
As I recall, after her assent, I asked her if she was absolutely sure. That does sound exactly like something I'd say. As has happened so often since she insists my recollection is entirely inaccurate. Wie du meinst my dear.
I'm pretty sure I promised her a marvelous adventure with large amounts of laughter and, I believe, elaborately big dance numbers with Busby Berkley choreography. I may have oversold, ever so slightly, the upside of the matrimonial state with me but she's never complained at how the movie's turned out, even now when we're closer to the last reel and the closing credits than to the previews.
I've been told experience is what you get when you didn't get what you wanted. And maybe that's another reason why I love her: she's experienced all of me there is and still loves me despite all of that meanwhile I have what I wanted, her. Yay me!