It’s 2:39am. Crap. I should not have had that 36th cup of coffee yesterday. It’s Monday, February 12th, 2018. Saying 2018 out loud seems like we’re keeping up with the Jetsons, not the Kardashians, by the way...
I’m wide awake, with the ceiling fan on “warp 10” and the windows open in winter in Idaho, underneath a blanket that looks like it’s made of wolf pelts. I know it’s not because it smells nothing like wolves. What am I to do? She likes it frosty. By frosty, I mean arctic; by she I mean Mrs. St-Martin...Jodi St-Martin...shaken, not stirred, dirty, with olives...I digress, but Jodi does kind of have a spy name.
Jodi is 44 years young on this early morn, and tucked away for a long winter’s nap. I want to go downstairs and escape these blizzard conditions (not unlike those when summiting K2, or so I’m told). I dare not wake her. Hell hath no fury like a Jodi scorned at 2:39am, unable to return to the peaceful slumber she once knew, pre-spousal-idiocy by her husband tripping over stilettos in the dark...
All I know, is that if I am successful in sneaking away to drink yet more coffee at 3am, I must be equally daring and clandestine in returning to bed, prior to alarm clocks alarming the hell out of her. I want to be the first person there, as the day greets her, to wish Jodi, “Happy Birthday.”
In life there is opportunity cost: the ancillary cost (loss) associated with pursuing a course of action. Yet, when I asked Jodi to marry me, there was no opportunity cost. There was nothing that I had, nor was, that meant more to me than the opportunity to pursue a lifetime with Jodi. There was only upside.
She knew I was broken. She knew I was compromised. She knew I was running. She knew I was alone.
She knew I was more than the sum of my parts. She said yes.
You can have the world. I’ll take Jodi.
Happy Birthday, Jodi. I’d say I love you, but it’s more complicated than that...