Because we chose to host a big holiday party last weekend and because we accidentally, shamefully went a little overboard with Christmas gifts for our daughter and because we’re about to take a trip to the Pacific Northwest (if we can get there), and because we’re likely to be dumping money into not one but two new computers in the sickeningly near future, Sam and I decided to scale back the anniversary celebration this year. We’ve still got our holiday cards to address and send out, so we’ve skipped the card exchange. I even banned all bouquets since we already have one that is so breathtaking, I hardly need another. Remember, I’m trying to simplify things and I think we were both in need of a little simplicity where our anniversary was concerned.

But on a whim, I left work (very) early, sped home in time to freshen my make-up (which didn’t make me look any younger or any less tired) and jump into the mini for an afternoon drive.

We drove to the dry cleaners and then…to Café Chloe (be still my heart!), where we ordered frites and a salad and their delectable mac ‘n’ cheese to share. Since Sam doesn’t eat meat, the owner offered—without me so much as mentioning the possibility—to put the prosciutto only on my half. Imagine that! This bi-polar option is the macaroni and cheese version of the marriage blanket I’ve designed so many times in my head: One half is stuffed with the warmest down feathers known to geese, while the other is nothing more than a whisper-thin sheet. You can guess which side I’d be under.

Prosciutto or no prosciutto, that is the question; it’s important to understand the answer isn’t “either/or”.  You see, the secret to our seven years of marital bliss (and bummers, too, don’t forget those), is that we have the freedom to purchase both smooth and crunchy peanut butter. Seriously. It may sound like nothing, but this was a breakthrough realization for us. Another survival secret? My man knows when to keep his trap shut.

After lunch, we got stuck in a horrendous traffic jam on the way to an antique shop, thanks to some bomb-esque package left on a road that leads to the airport. Cars were lined up in every direction filled, I imagine, with increasingly anxious would-be travelers as they realized their flights would not include them. And while we managed to subvert much of the backlog with Sam’s Bond-like driving techniques, my bladder wasn’t happy with the delay. Leave it to me, I almost ruined the day by snapping at Sam for waiting, unlike Bond, for the light to change at a four-way stop. But he’s patient and loving and probably a little afraid, too, all of which allows me plenty of room to be an ass.

And so our marriage chugs along at a relatively even pace (he’s even; I suffer random and acute muscle spasms). It’s a marathon, not a race, Sam likes to say. It’s about endurance and we’re merely splashing cold water on our faces as we hammer past the third water station.