An open letter to my bed

Dear My Bed,

Just want you to know that I like you. I really, really like you. I've been worried you might think otherwise because I haven't crawled inside you much lately what with trips to SF! the beach! Wyoming! And now I'm going to St. George for the weekend, because my parents are celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary and we have plans for eating and play-going down south to celebrate.

But I'll return. Eventually.

Sincerely,

That person who used to sleep in you

Young Love

Thirty-four years ago today my parents and I got in the car and drove over to Ken Cannon's house. He was going to ride up to Salt Lake with us, because, you know, we were getting married.

Only when we got to his house, Ken's mom said he was in the bathroom throwing up. So I went back to the car and told my parents that Ken was in his bathroom throwing up. Then I burst into tears. The boy was having second thoughts about marrying me. CLEARLY! Time to pack it in and go home. We could just freeze the damn wedding cake and pull it out for birthdays. FOR THE REST OF MY MISERABLE LIFE.

My parents, however, said we'd wait for Ken. Which we did. We sat in the driveway and waited until Ken was finished with his business and whatnot and so forth. Eventually, he wobbled outside into the pale April sunshine, blinked and climbed into the back seat with me, all clammy and wan.

And then we drove to Salt Lake. And then we got married.

Best. Decision. Ever.