My wife, bless her cotton socks, has a daily ritual. Every morning, before I even open an eye, she leaves me a series of “forget-me-nots.”
These aren’t charming little posies, oh no. These are Post-it notes, strategically placed to remind me of the things she knows I’ll inevitably forget. Like, “Dentist, 2 PM,” stuck to the coffee machine. Or “Pick up dry cleaning,” adorning the fridge, next to a picture of our cat looking suspiciously judgmental.
This morning, however, was different. I woke to find a Post-it on my forehead, reading, in bold, red marker: “Remember anniversary!” Below that, a smaller note: “…and don’t forget the flowers.” I chuckled. She clearly thought I was even more forgetful than usual.
I kissed her sleepy head, grabbed the car keys and headed out. Flowers first, then the dentist. I even remembered to pick up the dry cleaning! Feeling smugly successful, I returned home, triumphant and armed with a dozen long-stemmed red roses.
I presented them to my wife, who was engrossed in a crossword puzzle. “Happy anniversary, my love!” I declared.
She looked up, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, honey,” she said sweetly. “Those are lovely. But you know… I meant *my* anniversary. With my yoga instructor. At 7 PM. And you were supposed to be watching the kids.”
The Post-it on my forehead suddenly felt very, very heavy.
