One of my father's favourite jokes (and there were many), was about a woman widowed three times. It was told as part of a conversation between two old ladies and went like this:
"Three husbands, all dead and buried?"
"What happened to the first one?"
"Oh, my! What happened to the second one?"
"Sadly, he, too died of eating poison mushrooms."
"And the third?"
"How did that happen?"
"He wouldn't eat the mushroom stew."
My dad would tell this joke in response to my Sweetie and I waxing eloquent about the amazing mushroom soup at the place we go every year to celebrate our wedding anniversary. This will be year ten. Mrs. Mitchell's in Primrose never, ever fails to delight. I am starving myself all day to save room for tonight's terrific meal.
I plan to try on my wedding dress again today, too, just to see whether I've eaten myself out of it in the last few months. Even if I can't, it will not be a huge tragedy. Ten years in, one gets a bit more sanguine about these things.
Sweetie and I have been through quite a lot in the last 3653 days, and we both have chosen to stay, no matter what the crisis; to find a way to the other side. I'm looking forward to a calm and happy second decade of wedded near-bliss.