On belching and dressing and loving

There once was a moment in my life in which I felt the profound need to belch in order to survive.

It was an occasion of celebration, I'm sure. Though, at the moment, I can't quite remember what celebratory occasion it was. Which is how I know that I am getting old and that I must write more often -- to keep a record, to enjoy, and, mostly, to remember.

Perhaps it was our first anniversary. It was only beginning to be chilly, I think. And, as I ponder, I got away with wearing a coat, I believe. So, for purposes of this story, we shall say it was our first anniversary celebration.

It was October, then, (or so we shall say) and the occasion called for celebration. And what, might I ask, is more celebratory and occasion-appropriate than food? Almost nothing, might be your answer.

So, we set off to the tenth floor of the building named for Joseph Smith. We drive, though we feel a little disgusted for doing so as we live only a ten-minute walk away. We blame it on my heels. Oh yes! We are dressed to the nines. You see, one cannot just go to the tenth floor of the building named for Joseph Smith dressed simply to the sixes or sevens. One MUST be dressed to the nines. So were were. And we had a reservation and everything.

We stepped out of the elevator and recollected on Jeff's wit as we first sparked each others' interest a year and ten months ago. His comment that the benches on the tenth floor looked like therapist couches for the big and tall will forever make me chuckle out loud. And his humble smile afterwards continues to make me go weak at the knees.

We glide down the hall (as one cannot simply walk when one is dressed to the nines and on the tenth floor of the building named for Joseph Smith). We veer right to the restaurant named for the roof. Appropriately, it is called, "The Roof Restaurant." We prove we are not hooligans by being dressed to the nines and holding up a post-it note with a ten-digit confirmation number that they never ask for.

We purposefully made the reservation for sunset. I had kindly requested a table near a window, but no matter how kind one is while making a reservation, one cannot be guaranteed a spot directly by the window. Our hostess sat us by the wall.

This turns out better than expected as "The Roof Restaurant" is built on levels. Each level can see directly to the window. We looked out at the valley and the setting sun and the beautiful temple where we had been married a year earlier. We are still in love a year later. Still falling more in love each day. And still happy. Perfection.

They ask what we would like to drink and we say, "Just water for us."

Then there is food. Lots of food. Plates and cups and bowls of food. As many plates and cups and bowls as we want. And Lion House rolls appear at our every whim. We sample the desserts, the fruits, the veggies, the potatoes. Then we sample more.

Then the waitress spills water on Jeff. Well, all over Jeff's side of the table. I know, waitress, sometimes I fumble around too when I notice how handsome he is.

We laugh at the dating couple next to us. It sounds like they're on a first date. He is dressed to the nines. She is dressed to the sevens. Not cool, guy. One must always tell their date when one should be dressed to the nines. We wonder if it will last for them. We hope it will but speculate otherwise.

Then there are more plates and bowls and cups of food.

And the sun has set and it's dark now. The check comes. We pay more for this meal than for our groceries for the month. But it's okay, because it is a celebratory occasion. We are happy, satisfied, well fed.

And then we stand up.

And it's as if we experience gravity for the first time. The new-found weight has shifted within our dressed-to-the-nines clothing. Everything is suddenly tighter. We can no longer glide our way out. It is decided. We must waddle.

Like two penguins (who are very much in love), we make our way to the elevator. We are now pleased with the decision we made to drive. Though, now we are a little disgusted with ourselves for other reasons.

We make it home, waddle up two flights of stairs (somehow), change into sweats and flop ourselves into bed.

I am grateful to be with a man who sees me waddle about, proclaiming to the high heavens that she wishes she had the ability to belch, dressed to the the twos and still loves me.

And I love him through it, too. Though, he can belch. And I'm very jealous.