27 years

Sally and I celebrate our 27th tonight. I shall dress appropriately -- something festive and summery, I think -- and I shall struggle as always to express my thanks and my love to a companion of a lifetime of adventures. And when I fail at that, I shall order the fish, which is generally quite nice at Matisse. (Sally had offered to go to a game. "Not for our anniversary," I said gallantly, "we must do something special." But it is the Cardinals -- maybe tomorrow?)

Meanwhile, dinner.  There will be roasted veggies to go with that fish, maybe polenta or some such thing, a nice salad, and for dessert, mango sorbet? But can it compete with the mango sorbet at the ballpark? (A question I imagine that is not often asked at Matisse.) Or maybe I'll just get a steak. In any event, it will all taste about the same.

The thing is that I'm losing my interest in food. I'm now down 50 pounds from a weight that the weight fascists had called obese. I have hesitated to consult an oncology nutritionist because I expect that he or she would advise that ice cream and hot dogs are not the optimum solution to cancer-related weight loss, while I actively fear the stuff that the nutritionist would recommend -- protein shakes... easily digestible vegetables... I have even lost my appetite for most ballpark staples.  Beer, tragically, has lost much of its appeal, and nachos aren’t what they once were. But I can still put away the hot dogs and ice cream, and OK, maybe a beer or two on a sunny afternoon. As for the possibilities at Matisse? Anything will be fine, and certainly predictable. I don't think the menu has changed since our lovely celebration of our 10th.

So, what to wear, something festive and summery. That actually defines my vintage Kansas City Monarchs Negro Leagues baseball jersey. The Monarchs were the best baseball team ever. Jim Crow laws shielded the Yankees of Ruth and Gehrig from the humiliation of facing the Monarchs, although I do imagine them playing somewhere in a field of dreams, Ruth calling his shot, Satchel Page calling the seven players behind him into the dugout while he delivers three pitches of swing-and-miss justice.

I have not covered my Monarchs jersey in any such glory, but it did have a moment off the field. During my first tour in the Foreign Service, in Saudi Arabia, the boss thought it would be good for the junior officers to host a diplomatic reception, usually a stiff occasion lubricated by an open bar for local contacts and diplomatic colleagues. We needed a theme, and I recalled the advice of a friend to concede the fancy to the Europeans and go casual. Americans always win at casual. So we welcomed our guests to a celebration of Opening Day -- hot dogs, hamburgers, popcorn, and a VHS tape of an actual baseball game, which baffled our guests as they paused briefly to watch before dashing on to the bar. I am sure that no one understood the significance of my Monarchs jersey, and I recall that my explanations fell a little flat, regardless I was most proud to wear it overseas as a representative of the United States, and Kansas City, and the greatest game ever.  Everyone else just liked the grub and the excuse to dress down at the Ambassador's house.

Alas, a nice anniversary dinner is not the right time for the jersey, I suppose. Festive and summery, festive and summery... the Hawaiian shirt! It pairs very nicely with cargo shorts and Keens. After 27 years, I have mostly lost the ability to surprise my dear wife, and when it comes to the wardrobe, that is no doubt a good thing.