J. believes that sometimes the burden of decision making is on her because I question my judgement excessively. I do find decision making harder since this whole cancer thing, for reasons I can’t discern. (BREAKING NEWS: Psychologist lacks insight.) In order to show us both that I could indeed make the odd decision, I planned a low-key anniversary celebration for us all on my own.
I had to balance my plan with the knowledge that J. is not fond of surprises; she prefers to know what’s coming. Yet if I share the surprise with her, she may question it, or talk me out of it, or just say no. That’s why I chose not to tell her what I had up my sleeve for our anniversary. I didn’t want to give her the opportunity to refuse.
I had planned something simple and fun: I’d take J. to the new fried-chicken place she’s been wanting to check out. We rarely go out to eat because of the persistent overseasoning (why not call it what it is, “oversalting”) of restaurant food. Eating fried chicken would be an ultra-high-sodium indulgence, and thus a huge sacrifice on my part.
Who cares? I don’t, now that research shows low-salt diets increase the risk of heart attacks and strokes. (I’m kidding. I question those findings, as I imagine many researchers in the field do.) But I eat the odd piece of pizza, and even lox passed these lips a few weekends ago. Still, I feared J. would use the sodium as a reason not to go.
I mentioned to J. on Saturday that I had a surprise for our anniversary on Sunday. Of course that approach failed and, after her pouting and badgering and pleading for a full two minutes, I let the dog out of the bag. (That doesn’t sound quite right.) Her response surprised me. She got all excited and told me she’d be salivating over the anticipated meal for a full 24 hours.
Although the evil word (sodium) did cross her lips once, J. did not nix the outing, so off we went. We were the only customers in the small take-out shop–I guess not a lot of people eat fried chicken for lunch on a hot summery day–and the cashier slyly threw in an extra buttermilk biscuit, to our delight. J. sped us home while I tried to keep the grease off my pants. We downed our delicious salty lunch on our deck, even sharing a few celebratory tidbits with Jelly.
At some point during the day, I can’t recall exactly when, J. decided to surprise me. It wasn’t a gift–she’d already disclosed her gift of an upcoming weekend away–or a lowly takeout meal. No, she told me I’d gotten the date wrong: our anniversary is actually today. I thought yesterday was the 6th of June. Silly, silly me.
So Happy Anniversary, honey. I’m out of surprises, but I’ll look forward to seeing you later. There’s more fried chicken where yesterday’s came from if you’d like. Just say the word.