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.
