As of yesterday, I’ve been married seven years. So obviously, the image of Marilyn Monroe standing over a subway grate is among the first things to come to mind. Not that I’m feeling in the least bit itchy, but you can’t be a movie buff and be married for seven years and not remember the movie. I’m sure there’s a law against it somewhere.
I remember my married friends telling me that marriage wasn’t a bed of roses. Not as discouragement, mind, but just to ensure that I took the rose-tinted glasses off before jumping in. My response to that was that nothing in life ever is as bed of roses. Unless we’re discussing Bon Jovi or people who like waking up with rose petals stuck to their butt. Which, given what little I’ve heard of rock star lifestyles, might even end up being the same thing. But I digress.
All things considered, I’d say I’m pretty happily married. Oh, there are days when either or both of us feel like tearing our hair out. But then there are also days like today, when I get this for an anniversary gift:
She pre-ordered it at Blossoms, dragged me there under some pretext and then sprung this on me. A few years ago, she arranged to get me DVDs of most of the Oscar nominated movies in that year.
If I’m itching for anything, it’s for an eternity of the same, even with Sharmila Tagore pointing a gun at me.
Happy anniversary, Lakshmi. I love you.
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