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Flo,
Thanks for remembering the date, but it’s not my first anniversary, not with Tim anyway. I married his fourth cousin or something.
If you were in the den with me, you’d wonder about that sound coming through the door ─ floing! ha! over and over. That would be Tim, on a trampoline set up in the living room. He’s got so he can bounce on it upside-down and touch the cathedral ceiling with his feet. Eight months ago this was the guy who didn’t leave me any slack when I put my arms around him. He threw out all his old family recipes after I learned to make them just like his mother. Now he’s on an all-vegan diet, and the dinners I make him are like a buffet in the Fuehrerbunker. He bought an old racing greyhound to jog with; when they come home, it’s always the dog that looks exhausted.
Believe me, that’s not all. When Tim lost weight, he got most of his new wardrobe from L. L. Bean; I wondered if pitching a tent around our bed was his next step. He decided to teach himself a foreign language, and I have to explain to people why German words are pasted all over the house, including BLECH on all my saucepans. He volunteered for the depression hotline, never mind that the graveyard shift is their rush hour. And we don’t listen to old musicals anymore; Tim discovered early music. Every Tuesday night our house sounds like a Club Med for monks. I married a cuddly, predictable loafer with no interest in self-improvement, little knowing that when we crossed the threshold the changeling spell would kick in.
Tim just came into the den. Our paper anniversary, and he has a five-foot blowup of our wedding kiss resting on his Bean Boots. That gets me to thinking. As much as he’s changed