Opinion: Remember to forget birthday

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A few days back, I forgot our anniversary — our 39th.  I remembered the first 38, so my record isn’t bad. Our anniversary was Friday, and we had planned to attend the Italian Fest and the Talbot Street Art Fair on Saturday to celebrate.   

The actual date totally slipped my mind on Friday. I left the house that morning with no thought of the special day. When I returned home, I found a sweet anniversary card Mary Ellen had left on my desk, but she was left cardless and flowerless and I was obviously brainless. I think you can understand how I made this error.

Saturday’s weather was terrible, but Mary Ellen still wanted to go downtown. She seemed to be in a good mood, but I sensed I was still in the dog house.

After we parked, she requested a certain eatery (I didn’t particularly like the place, but I was in no position to assert my preference).

We walked the art fair in a downpour, with only one umbrella.

“It’s OK, Mary Ellen, you use it. I enjoy walking in the rain. It’s romantic” It’s actually not and I hate getting wet, but remember, I did space out old No. 39).

On our way home, Mary Ellen asked if we could stop at her favorite antique store.

“Of course,” I said. “I love antique shopping.” I hate it, but I was trying to crawl out of the dog house.

That evening, she asked me to clean the cat’s litter box.

“Wait a second, I never do that. Angel is your cat.”

“No, she’s our cat. Just like we are now celebrating our…”

“I know, I know. Where’s the scooper?”

Saturday finally ended, after I had yielded to every one of Mary Ellen’s whims and desires. To further make up for my memory lapse, I also promised that for our 40th next year we would travel to Barcelona, a place she has always wanted to visit. 

Just before we fell asleep, she leaned over to kiss me goodnight and whispered in my ear, “My birthday is in July. Please let it slip your mind.”

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