Monday night was our seven year wedding anniversary (yes, I did get married when I was still a fetus; no, I’m not a Mormon; and nay, I was not a child “with child” at the time of our vows). We made the mistake of celebrating our codependence at a Chinese food restaurant, which I understand sounds harmless enough, but I assure you, it was not. Things were going along well enough, as I had decided to indulge in what I call Anxiety Alleviator Numero Uno: Drinking Myself into a Slap Happy Stupor.
I had pretty much roofied myself to death with multiple Lucky Cat Martinis (rrrraaarrrr!) when I found it was already time for Ah! Fortune Cookie Say! (Sorry, that was just inappropriate.) Brian did the honors of dolling out the desserts, and for that split second when he reached toward the cookies and selected the one that was to be mine, I did what all anxious people do and froze, worrying, “What if the one he’s handing me is supposed to be his fortune cookie?!” But alas, I took the fate I was given, and smashed it into a crumbly mess.
There before me was the worst fortune I’ve ever read. It was atrocious in its negativity and self-assuredness. That little psychic paper from hell!
It said: Be prepared to change your plan.
Whaaaa?! I have only three plans in life and they are to get my book published, spawn, and stay married to my husband. That’s it. What part of my life do you have to steal away from me, you little bastard fortune cookie?! The years of arduous labor I’ve already invested slaving over my memoir, at times for up to three long hours a week in between reality TV marathons? Or should I change my plan about ever getting to squeeze my as-of-yet innocent and unborn babies out my as-of-yet un-episiotomied birth canal? Is that it? Are you saying I’ll never have my much-anticipated and already-beloved first born hermaphrodite? Or my soul mate? Which part, fortune cookie?! Which part?!
Is the clairvoyant down at the fortune cookie factory just so hell bent on being right that he’s coming up with Special Edition Recession Era Cookies? What’s next, fortune cookie say: Be prepared to cash in your 401K? Invest in a cardboard box? Set it up by a soup kitchen and hope it’s not within close proximity to the needle exchange program? I guess that last one wouldn’t quite fit.
Sensing that I was teetering on the verge of Dark Side territory, Bri ripped the mini harbinger of bad news from my shaking fingers.
Always the optimist and mind reader, he looked at me with that familiar expression that says, “You are truly insane. You are letting a dessert snack ruin our seven year wedding anniversary.”
And I just stared back at him with that familiar look that says, “I know.”
He then did what any good husband would do and crammed my paper fortune in his gullet, chewing it into an inky pulp. When he was done, he pulled out the gob and tossed it on the one remaining garlic noodle that I had left untouched (as evidence of my being A Classy Lady Who Does Not Lick Her Plate).
When I continued to possess the crazed expression of a person intent upon taking her rage out on the inanimate objects surrounding her, my gaze hovering over glasses and knives as I imagined overturning tables circa Cops The PCP Special, he tried another tact.
“Nicole. Don’t be crazy,” he said. “It says, ‘Be prepared to change your PLAN,’ it doesn’t say change your ‘goal’ or your ‘dreams.’”
“I guess,” I said, beginning to restore normal breathing patterns and loosen my grip on my chopsticks. Maybe my little hermie is still floating around on a cloud in heaven. Maybe Bri and I will grow old enough together to Depend on each other in both the disposable diaper sense and the less disgusting sense. And maybe someone will still publish all of my most personal memories that I should never release into the world.
But then I still had to go through the long list of What If scenarios with him.
Finally I resolved to go ahead and make, then change a bunch of random plans and hope that takes care of my ominous destiny.
I did realize that I was bargaining with a cookie. I was aware that a fried and folded blob of dough gave me a panic attack – and it wasn’t even like the Pillsbury mascot got all loco on me.
My first arbitrary plan I changed was my willingness to go forward in life as someone who enjoys the occasional fortune cookie. You can’t fool me again.
My next plan was to continue freaking out, so I had to change that, too. Thankfully that final change was the one that allowed me the chance to celebrate seven years of Brian putting up with my crazy ass. Turns out, I’m a pretty lucky girl after all.
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