At about five this afternoon, my wife sent me a message on Skype, asking if I wanted to go out for dinner. I gave this some thought: there’s plenty of stuff in the fridge, and although I was paid less than a week ago, we’re trying to economise, what with having a newborn to care for and all. Then again, I haven’t treated my wife to dinner for a little while (if you don’t count buying her an ice cream while I was utterly plastered on Friday night), and, lovable though our daughter is, everyone deserves to get out of the house every so often.
It wasn’t until half an hour or so later, when I received a congratulatory email from my sister, that I realized it was two years ago today that I’d married my wife, and in the whirlwind of births, birthdays and booze it had completely slipped my mind. Whoops.
My wife was very forgiving, although I understand that I only get one free out on this sort of forgetfulness. I am in two minds whether to set up a calendar reminder for future years, to stop myself forgetting again. Will that display diligence, or dramatic unromanticism? Is it good to be reliable and remember things, or not if you need an electronic crutch to do so?
If I’d remembered earlier, maybe I could have brazened it out, quickly calling round to make a reservation, but I don’t think that would have been anything less than transparent. Oh well. To get back in my wife’s good books, I went straight home from the office.
After going for a five kilometre run first, of course. I haven’t exercised anything apart from my drinking arm for a week, and a lazy James is a gloomy and slothful James. We both know that, and we know it’s better that I come in the door at 7pm, sweat dripping from my beard and all the offensively-coloured clothes I’m wearing, than for me to slowly transform into a block of cheese.
However, given that we went to an Italian restaurant that specializes in mozzarella, the transfromagrification (yes, that’s a real word, meaning "turning into cheese" and yes, I just made it up) of my body was a very real risk. Best to burn a few hundred calories just in case.
We dined outside, predominantly on cheese, and our daughter slept contentedly next to us, allowing us to have an adult conversation. Which we spent mostly discussing her bodily functions, but that’s the baseline for us these days. At least we were talking, not softly lowing, as though sleep deprivation had rendered us bovine.
At length, we sauntered home, and I read a little of the London Review of Books before passing out stone cold at 9pm, waking with a start an hour later to discover it was still today. (Last night a late conference call rendered me insomniacal, and I was struggling all day on too little sleep.) I had been planning to eat some more cheese when I got home, but given I want to reach our third anniversary with not too many clogged arteries, it was probably better that I forgo that in favour of a nap. Now I wonder what I should eat to improve my memory.