Today seems like a good day to tell the world the true story of my third son’s conception. It happened on my seventh wedding anniversary, which oddly enough fell on Groundhog Day. I may possibly be the only dumbass who ever got married on Groundhog Day and didn’t know it for three years. A woman who’s too ignorant to know she got married on Groundhog Day should never be surprised by the circumstances of a day where a celebration, an ending, and a proposition all show up at the same occasion.
As aforementioned, it was our seventh anniversary. In the last paragraph, I had said it was our wedding anniversary but we had no such wedding. We got married at the courthouse, but we most certainly did not have a wedding. Shotgun wedding at a courthouse on Groundhog Day. “How romantic,” you snicker. This is the point in the story where I recommend that no one ever marry in the months of January, February, or March. Either you, your spouse, or one of your children are bound to have a cold, a broken leg, or cabin fever during these months, making the likelihood of a happy celebration next to nil. Mark my words.
We drove to the restaurant nimbly, our goal to avoid a slide on some newly iced roads. Upon arriving, we found that our table wasn’t ready so we went to the bar for some stiff drinks. Well, at least I had a stiff drink. I needed all the fortitude I could muster for my “announcement.” My husband and I chit chatted like old high school chums just catching up on all the news of mutual acquaintances. I filled him in on our kids and he let me know what all the guys at work were up to. It was awkward. After my second drink and no hope of our table being ready any time soon, I blurted out the real reason for our date: I wanted out of the marriage.
My husband being much older and calmer than I took another sip of his drink and a drag on his cigarette and coolly said, “You have a strange sense of timing for this announcement.” Somehow it hadn’t seemed all that strange to me. My need was for a place to give him the news, outside the house, and in a public place so that there would be no shouting or door slamming. We’d had a rocky marriage and two kids at that time, and hadn’t been sleeping in the same bed for most of the seven years.
Soon after my news was delivered, our table was ready so we grabbed our drinks and were seated. I remember having a great salad and a nicely seared steak, and chatting with glee about how I saw our future as we co-parented our kids and lived free from the shackles of our mostly unhappy marriage. I almost felt guilty to feel so happy. We drove home agreeing to file papers soon, to be amicable to the best of our abilities, and to be supportive of one another. It was surreal. It hadn’t occurred to me that two people who could not be civilly married could be civil as they unwound the life they had (kind of) shared for some years.
Upon our arrival home, I went to the master bedroom, and he retired to his leather lounger in the living room; our usual sleep arrangement. He preferred to sleep in front of the TV when he came home from the late shift and that pattern had started on the first week we got married. It seemed like a lie to even say we were married. My own parents never slept apart.
Sometime after I had fallen into a light sleep, a fluttering sound woke me a little. I opened my eyes as much as I could after three gin and tonics and two glasses of wine: was that my husband standing beside the bed? What is he doing in here? Naked? Is he crazy?
