So, I asked my wife if we could do something special for "my" 40th anniversary with her.

When we were still "just friends" - I worked up the courage, after an argument - to tell my "friend" that I was madly in love with her, which was true. She responded she wasn't interested in a relationship "with anyone." She asked me if the fact that I was in love with her was going to ruin our friendship. I said I hoped not; I was in love with her and she should know about it, but the fact that I loved her did not compel her in any way to respond in kind.

She accepted that and we continued to hang out, each day beginning with a run on a North Shore Long Island Beach, talking as usual, with me letting it drop, as casually as possible, that I was, after all - I couldn't help it - in love with her, being sure to state it in a matter-of-fact way, no angst.

We were both in difficult living situations; my housemate at the time was a terrible alcoholic; the apartment she was renting had been purchased by Coptic Christians who were constantly establishing "rules" for her apartment, very intrusive rules.

I suggested that she and I become housemates along with a few other friends, get a place together, each with our own room, to address our rough existing conditions.

She asked if we lived in the house together, and she brought home a boyfriend, how I'd react. I said, "I wouldn't like it of course, but it would be none of my business, since me being in love with you doesn't require anything on your part."

She said, "Ok, I'll think about it."

She thought about it. After a time, she agreed to do it.

Then she told me she'd like me better if I shaved off my mustache. I said, "I have a scar above my upper lip from a bicycle accident."

She said, "You're so vain."

So I shaved off my mustache. The scar proved to not be too bad. She asked me why I shaved off my mustache. I said, "Because I love you and you don't like my mustache."

"Oh," she said.

We found a place, and moved in, and on the very first day she and I had our very first kiss, embrace, and so on. Neither of us ever slept in our own room alone thereafter. That was October 1st, forty years ago.

We married a year later, after she finally let out, months and months of living together, that maybe, just maybe, she loved me too.

Of course, on October 1st, I just couldn't believe that I had her in my arms, embracing kissing like high school kids. We'd been friends a long time, and well, I just never thought it would happen, that I'd ever get beyond "just friends" with her.

Anyway.

October 1st, is "my" idea of an anniversary. That was the best day of my life up until that point, although I'd have many more "best days of my life" afterwards, some relatively shortly after we became housemate/roomates, all of the succeeding "best days of my life" involving her.

For her, the only anniversary that matters is the wedding date, our very tacky wedding in a seedy commercial wedding chapel during a blizzard in Lake Tahoe. To her, we've been together 39 years, not 40.

So I told her this evening, that I wanted to do something special, for "my" (not her) 40th anniversary.

She complained, as she did when we first lived together, that I'm always counting things.

"You married me anyway; you knew that all along, that I count stuff."

So, after much hemming and hawing, and complaints about being tired, she agreed on a date with me to celebrate "my" 40th anniversary with her.

I wear her down. I win in the end. I'm having "my" 40th and we're going out and celebrating. She can have her 40th next year; it'll be my 41st.

You know, 40 years ago, I knew I was in love with her, but on reflection, I'm not sure that I knew what love really was. I'm pretty damned sure I know now.

She taught me all about it.