Last month, Tom and I had our fifteenth wedding anniversary. (And, hey, did I ever mention that when I went to get my wedding gown fitted the seamstress had to take in the waist by quite a bit to make it fit me? I like to work that into conversation when I can because no way is THAT ever going to happen again. I mean, unless I get one of those weird flesh eating bacteria diseases and it miraculously focuses just on my waist. Maybe then).
We made plans to go (à deux) to one of our favorite restaurants after Tom got off from work. That morning I pulled my little black dress out of the closet and selected my favorite long, pink accent necklace to wear with it. Pink toenails, my brand-new black patent leather wedge sandals, and a pink bag would complete the look. I don't get many opportunities to dress up (unless we're talking my nice baseball cap, rather than the dirty sweat-stained one I garden in), so each time I went into my bedroom that day, I took the opportunity to peek at my planned outfit. I pondered which perfume to wear.
I should probably back up and mention that my anniversary fell two days after my spectacular Backwards With a Full Twist fall into the pond hole? So that in addition to being my wedding anniversary, June 24th also marked the day in which my foot most resembled a swollen corpse foot? Yet somehow, as I looked forward all day to going out with my husband, it never really occurred to me that this would be a problem. Despite the inability to bear any weight on that foot. Or the fact that the foot began to swell rapidly and alarmingly within ten minutes of being up and around.
Around 4:00, I pondered my cute, strappy patent leather wedges and (in a blinding epiphany) realized that I had precisely zero chance of getting them on my foot. In fact, short of a strap-on snowshoe, I couldn't really think of any footwear that would work.
I called Tom and confessed that my Foot o'Shame was going to ruin our anniversary dinner. He gallantly offered to get takeout for all four of us from the same restaurant. I re-hung my black dress in the closet and tucked the pink necklace back into the jewelry box.
"You have a once-in-a-lifetime invitation to Daddy's & my anniversary dinner," I told the girls. "Only one condition: you have to set the table."
They agreed. There was whispered consultation, then they sent my to my room, where I iced my foot and listened nervously to the alarming amount of clatter coming from the front of the house.
I whipped out my cell phone and texted Tom:
Me: Told kids they can share our takeout only if they set table. Am fabulous mom.
Tom: Food ordered! Home soon.
Me: Kids just yelled don't come out. Smell matches. Bad?
Tom: Smoke alarm will be next...
Me: Just heard them both leave by front door. Weird.
Tom: I'd get out now, if I were you.
Me: Also, cat just flew back here looking clearly freaked out. Hear much running of water.
Tom: NOW. Get out now.
Me: Thinking I can make ladder of bed sheets and escape by window. Foot may be problem.
Not long after, Bug and Bear came to my door and called me out. This is what they'd done:
Not bad! I was especially impressed that they thought to pull out place mats (non-matching, but I appreciated the thought), put ice in the drinks, and picked flowers from the garden for a centerpiece. The lit candle explained the matches.
I may not have looked nearly as cute as I'd hoped (black yoga pants, t-shirt, ponytail, foot o'shame), but it turned out to be one of our best anniversary dinners to date.