20-Year Anniversary Math

I hate math. I absolutely hate math. I’m using the word “HATE” here. I don’t understand it. I don’t know how to do it, and the entire concept of math just makes no sense to me.

To this day I still DO NOT know how to answer the age old mathematical question which I believe every 5th or 6th grader is given . . .

Boston and New York are approximately 280 miles apart. One train leaves Boston traveling towards New York at an average speed of 80mph. Another train leaves New York at the same time traveling towards Boston at an average speed of 60mph. How long will it take them to meet?

I have NO IDEA how to figure this out. I don’t even know where to start. In fact thinking about it right this second, the ONLY thing I can come up with is that the train traveling at 60mph is experiencing mechanical difficulties, and is unable to achieve top speed. Or maybe there’s a switch problem on the track and that’s what’s causing the second train to go slow. I’m lost. I’m 43 years old, and I have NO IDEA how to do what I can only assume is a relatively easy grammar school math problem. I hate math.

But . . . I do like numbers. And I do like statistics. I like batting averages, and earned run averages. I like free throw shooting percentages. I like plus/minus numbers in hockey. I like counting down the days until vacation. I like keeping track of how many laps I swim, and then adding up the total distance swam. I like knowing how many miles I ran, and how fast I ran them. I like knowing what percentage of free space I have on my DVR . . . yeah that one is a little weird, but I like keeping it under 50%. Don’t ask. And I even like knowing how many songs I have on my iPod.

So while I HATE MATH . . . again there’s the word “hate,” I actually like numbers.

Which means I’m already having a field day working on the numbers for my upcoming wedding anniversary later this year. You see, my wife and I will celebrate our 20th anniversary together in October and I am already coming up with all sorts of numbers related to this event.

For instance . . .

This October we will have been married for 7,300 days.

That’s 240 months.

1,040 weeks.

175,200 hours.

That’s 20 Christmas mornings together.

That’s celebrating 20 birthdays (well 40 if you combined both of ours).

That’s 80 changes of seasons.

That’s 40 day-light savings time . . . . and I understand that whole day-light savings time thing about as much as I understand math. . . makes no sense to me.

It’s two kids.

One of which I’m positive is mine.

It’s three dogs. One we got rid of because he wasn’t nice. One died after more than 14 years, and one that currently likes chasing speeding Amtraks, so if that keeps up it could be four dogs soon.

It’s approximately 20 good arguments about finances . . . yeah about once a year . . . typically right after Costco rejects our credit card as we’re trying to buy a case of Sunny D, a half-gallon of Soy Sauce, a sleeve of frozen hamburger patties and an industrial size bottle of liquid soap . . . we argue about our finances . . . or lack thereof. And then I struggle with what hurts more . . . the fact that we don’t have a lot of money . . . or that I wasn’t able to get that half-gallon bottle of Soy Sauce.

It’s about 60 good disagreements over what she’s served for dinner . . . my wife is an AWESOME COOK . . . I really lucked out there, but I’d venture to say that about three times a year she concocts something in the kitchen that looks and tastes . . . . well . . . . like something from that Fear Factor Show years ago. Her last one was some chicken and rice baked casserole that still haunts my dreams. My younger son has not been able to eat a chicken nugget since. You just mention the word “chicken” and he starts twitching. He may need to see a therapist.

It’s at least 40 “Come To Jesus-type” sex talks where I sit her down and say “Babe, I gotta have more sex,” and she says “Yeah, whatever.”

And speaking of sex . . .

It’s 960 Sundays without sex. It’s Sunday. It’s “family day.” It’s the calm before the storm. There’s no sex on Sunday.

It’s 960 Mondays without sex. She’s too depressed that the work week has just started.

It’s 960 Tuesdays without sex. She’s too tired.

It’s 960 Wednesdays without sex. Though in all fairness Wednesday night is not really her fault. Wednesday is paddle night, and I typically don’t get home until about 11:00, and I’m pretty sure I smell something awful. To make matters worse I usually burst through the door bragging about winning some court #4 series V match, and though my wife typically sits there and pretends to be impressed, I believe that if she were being brutally honest with me she would say something along the lines of “I’ve never been less attracted to you as I am right now.” I cut her some slack on Wednesday night.

It’s 960 Thursdays without sex. She’s too focused on finishing the work week strong so that she can enjoy the weekend.

It’s 960 Fridays where I THINK I HAVE A CHANCE OF SEX . . . you know it’s Friday after all . . . and yet not so much. Friday night is still a mystery to me.

And it’s 960 Saturday nights where I actually have a realistic shot of sex.

960 Saturdays where I have made sure my face was clean-shaven.

960 Saturdays where I’ve tried my best NOT to act like a jack-ass . . . probably succeeded at least 600 times.

Gotten her tipsy at least 750 times.

Taken one Viagra. You all know what happened there.

Gotten BOTH kids out of the house 15 times.

And have actually gotten laid 480 times.

I have 480 I.O.U.’s.

It’s 100 requests to plunge the toilet after she accuses me of clogging it up.

It’s me blaming my oldest son for at least 80 of those clogged toilets.

And it’s me lying about 70 of those.

It’s 20 years of me looking at her and wondering why she’s with me.

It’s 20 years of her wondering the same thing.

It’s 20 years of me feeling like the luckiest guy in the world.

It’s 20 years of me knowing that despite all the other uncertainty that seems to surround me on an
almost every day basis, that my marriage makes sense.

It’s 20 of the greatest years of my life.

Now if I could just figure out that damn train question.