Every year, at some point in November, I get the creeping crud. No matter how hard I try to fight it off, I fail. It snuck into my system and reared its ugly head yesterday. I hoped it would just quietly vanish, but alas, no such luck. By 5 p.m. Andrea sent me home from the bead show. Well, by 5 p.m. I was ready to go home, put on my comfy cotton jammies, and crawl in bed with a cup of hot tea.
And, as has become our tradition, as I was lying there in my jammies sniffling and feeling crummy, Gary looked at me and asked, “Will you marry me?” And, as I always do, I say “yes.”