Yesterday was our seventh wedding anniversary.
We went out to dinner at a fancy, trendy sushi restaurant that we love. A couple was seated next to us within minutes, and from the two envelopes she was carefully cradling in her hands, one addressed “World’s Best Dad,” I gathered it was his birthday. They sat on the same side of the table. She was skinnier than me. Blonde. Stylishly appointed in an emerald green cocktail dress, wide leopard print belt and Louboutins. She looked happy to be out. Sipping her cucumber martini, gazing adoringly at him, around the room at the trendy people, not checking her watch or phone. He spent the dinner on his Blackberry. The entire dinner. While they ordered, while she nibbled, while she merrily sipped martini number two. He Blackberried. He laughed at his Blackberry. He paused just long enough to glance at the 20-something getting up from the table next to them in a wannabe Herve Leger bandage dress. He Blackberried some more. They were in and out within an hour.
We complained about the table at first, there was a cool breeze coming in that was too cool for us. We laughed about being high-maintenance once our first drinks came and warmed us up. We didn’t have to look at the menu, instead agreeing on our favorite dishes, the same ones we always have. Then we savored each one, asked them to take their time bringing them to us. We called home (just once) to make sure the kids were fast asleep. We kept on ordering. We talked about our first apartment together. We gossiped about our dearest friends. We laughed about things our kids did and said that day. He helped me (slightly) stumble my way through the restaurant to the exit. I played DJ on the drive home, cranking the songs that have made up the soundtrack to our lives together, and singing along at the top of my Veuve Cliquot-filled lungs. I put our wedding song, “Nobody Knows Me” by Lyle Lovett on repeat. We did not Blackberry.
Seven years. No itch.