Toby and I recently celebrated our 1 year anniversary. It’s (I’ve been told) the Paper Anniversary. Given that I’m still living through the fiscal wreckage known as Tobyjoe’s birthday and Christmas, I couldn’t afford much. Thinking I was like the smartest most cleverest gal in town, I got him a subscription to the New York Times. (You get it? Do you? Yeah.) I thought it’d be a splendid way to say, “I love you. Thanks for putting up with me all year.”

On January 3rd, Toby came home with my anniversary present.

This is probably the nicest watch I’ve ever seen. It’s so pretty! The hand sweeps. The numbering is super elegant. It’s modest, yet perfectly designed. What can I say? It’s lovely.

But I do feel kinda bad. There is a part of me who wonders if unconsciously I ordered the New York Times knowing full-well we would both benefit from it.

I remember times from my youth, hearing my parents joke about how Bob purchased yet another gift for Diane. And how it was something he wanted to have and not necessarily something she wanted to have. I thought, “I will try hard to avoid this when I grow up.”

Yeah, right.