You May Not Remarry
Tonight at dinner I began lamenting the fact that next Monday is my 30th birthday.
“I’m old,” I whined to my 36-year-old fiance’.
“Old?” he repeated, a bit incredulously.
“Yes, old. 30 is - well it means I’m practically dead. It’s terrible” I moaned.
“Well let’s face it - I’m going out well before you do” he says, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m older than you and I’m a diabetic. The odds are not in my favor.”
“No way!” I squeaked. “We are going to die, side-by-side, holding hands in hospital beds at 110 years old. Well, 117 for you.”
“I’m goin’ out first. Prepare yourself for that” he says, this time a bit more seriously.
I sigh. Wasn’t this conversation all about me a few seconds ago? And playful? Now it’s morbid and - ew - serious.
I look my fiance’ in the eye.
“Hey” I say, a smile playing across my lips.
“Hey” he says back.
“You know how most women tell their husbands that if they die first, they want the husband to go out and find himself someone else, and to live his life?” I pause, waiting for his nod.
I take a deep breath. “That does not hold true for you. If you find someone else to spend time with after I’m dead I’ll come back and haunt you. And I’ll haunt her, too - the little tart. Plus, if she is younger than me or worse - younger than our children - I’ll enlist the help of a mischievous angel to replace your toothpaste with hemorrhoid cream.”
Fearing that the last part sounded a bit too scary, I flash him my most winning smile. To my relief he starts cracking up laughing.
“So, I don’t have your permission to remarry, then” he says playfully?
“Nope. You do not. I want you to be happy, but only be with me. If it’s not with me, I expect you to be miserable - cool?”
He laughs. “Sure my love. That works for me.”
"Good. It works for me too" I say, nodding my approval.
Now that is what I call the perfect understanding.