Seven Year Itch: Scratched

 

This past Sunday afternoon Attic Man disappeared into our house after a family shopping expedition, having commanded us to “sit tight.”  Thinking he had spied something amiss about a door or window, I sat in the car envisioning his death by robber-stabbing, only to see him jounce out of the house with a bundle of some sort, which he then threw in the hatch.  We commenced to a local park by the river, where he found a spot, spread out a blanket, and revealed a baguette, Irish swiss cheese, and a bottle of Franziskaner swathed ever so elegantly in a paper bag.

I melted.  I knew our anniversary was coming but I also knew we didn’t have a babysitter and our chances of the classic romantic dinner were slim.  Attic Man remembered how we had lunched (and dinnered, after a pricy but scrumptous Indian meal at the beginning of our time together nearly bankrupted the trip…blast unlisted prices!) on the patch of grass between the canal and the Corrib in Galway, munching on baguettes and cheese and drinking F. during our courtship in Ireland.  I spent a semester there studying (should that be in quotation marks?) abroad and he flew over for the last two weeks to play while I took final exams.  After my exams we took a bus around the ring of Kerry to stay in a hostel in Waterville, then visited his mother’s cousins in Armagh.  It was a rekindling, and as far as I’m concerned it was the real beginning of our relationship, though we had been together for about nine months prior.

It’s strange how much has changed and at the same time how much hasn’t.  We’ve gained and lost weight, lived in four different houses, been poor and flush and poor again, owned three dogs and buried one, got degrees and started others, and became parents.  And now I think the next seven years are going to top the last.