Put Our Love to the Test

When a bridal shower is taken to the next level, the groom is asked to participate. Thankfully, the modern convenience of video recording allowed me to attend in spirit, without necessitating a physical presence.

The match game is used to illustrate your lack of memories, regarding your relationship’s special moments, such as what she wore on your first date or what she ordered. You must hope that she doesn’t remember either, at least without checking her diary, or that you have a good reason for not remembering, such as having been enchanted by her beauty—because, sadly, your answers are now documented and cataloged for future reference in any discussion where you must defend your ability to pay attention. As a side note, commit that wonderful future mother-in-law’s birthday to memory. Just the month and day, not the year. A good rule is to guess her age and subtract twenty years. Then be astonished by the truth.

One question I was asked in the match game was: “What is your favorite meal that Christa makes?”

A tear came to my eye, as I thought about food. I flashed to the recipeless wonder singing and throwing flour over her shoulder, dancing around the kitchen, relying on her native instinct to tell her when dishes were done.

“BBQ cheese quesadillas,” I answered.

Not in front of the ladies, should I say such a thing. I had just labeled Christa as a modest culinary creator.

“There are some stir-fry dishes she makes, but they’re never the same twice, so it is hard to describe them exactly,” I quickly added.

Hopefully, they will see that she is magical in her ability to create so many indescribable dishes. Normally, these dishes are served with qualifying comments.

“Sorry, honey. It didn’t turn out quite the way I planned,” she says, feeling bad but knowing she is up against a greater power.

“Did you follow the recipe?” I inquire.

“You didn’t ask to marry me for my cooking skills.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that.”

I kid, because I love. I think that this is her way of rebelling against the system. She can read and measure ingredients and understands that recipes are written down to help you make the meal properly. Not doing so is a small way to stick it to the system and be free, free. She also has a backup story.

As the story goes, when she was growing up, her mom was very hesitant to let her in the kitchen during meal preparation, due to partially realistic safety concerns. What if she climbs in the oven to see how a casserole bakes? In addition, she was not allowed to handle knives, until she could drive, I believe. After witnessing the first few days of her driving, her parents decided maybe knives weren’t so dangerous. She still displays an uncanny knack for walking into stationary objects. She likes to think of herself as having an inborn gravitational force that unknowingly draws her into these objects, something beyond her control that makes her an involuntary siren, calling wayward bedposts and file cabinets to crash into her legs below.

Additional match game questions addressed our pet peeves. For example, I believe that Christa euthanizes many of our consumer products, meaning she puts them to rest before they are truly dead, that is, fully empty. Whenever it becomes harder to obtain a serving of any food or personal beauty product, than to use a brand new product, the old product is “put down.” In my opinion, it is laid to rest before its time. I am more willing to massage a tube of toothpaste, headstand a shampoo bottle, when the farting stage commences, and dip with fractional nacho chips. To me, pennies saved per product—across dozens of products and hundreds of product lifecycles—equates to a happy and healthy retirement. To her, it’s not worth the effort.

Her pet peeve is my answering without answering. She believes all that yes/no and either/or questions have singular answers, and when I don’t answer them that way, she gets annoyed. Here are some examples:

Christa: “Do you want to watch Chicago or The Wedding Planner?”

Drew: “I think they’re both pretty good.”

Christa: “Do you want chicken for dinner?”

Drew: “Possibly.”

Christa: “Would you rather have tacos? If so how many?”

Drew: “I had turkey for lunch, so probably two or three.”

Christa: “Do you like this outfit?”

Drew: “Why? Is there something wrong with it?”

Her position is summed up in this way: “How hard is it to say yes or no? You have commitment issues.”

My defense is that, although her questions seem straightforward, I am aware that there are actually many options available to consider, and there is value in delaying decisions until the last moment to gain more information.

Her response is: “Yes, if I was asking you to move across the country or quit your job, I would expect you to take a little time. But really, how hard is it to pick chicken or tacos?”

In total, I answered fourteen questions, including saying we wanted 2.4 children. That was the best way to say two or three—more explicitly, two, with an option for a third, depending upon the outcome of the first two. But I committed to 2.4, and I will love our two-fifths of a child like he or she was whole.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival