My wife gave me the stomach flu for our 19th Anniversary. I didn’t know that this was the gastrointestinal anniversary. I got her flowers.
Anyone waiting for something from me, please be patient.
Currently, I feel like a road grader has been at work in my gut. I feels like a strip mall neighborhood has sprung up in my small intestine. There’s a Wal-Mart in my stomach and, I think, a Hooters has opened in my colon.
What’s really nice about this—the golden lining, if you will—is that we are still happy when we are stuck in bed and trading trips to the bathroom. It may seem prosaic to say this about a marriage, especially to younger folks who think of love solely in terms of romance or unbridled lust, but there is magic in all the quiet and uncomfortable times Kiera and I have shared, too. I love my wife, even when she brings the flu home for our anniversary.
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