So here's your update, or your scorecard, or whatever.

I have pneumonia. Jeff has bronchitis. The hacking and wheezing is a sight to behold, but the good news is that nobody's going to the hospital—hooray! My white cell count has dropped from 18,000 to 15,000, which still isn't good, but it's an improvement and indicates I'm responding to antibiotics. Jeff's currently stands at 16,000. (Normal? 4,500-10,000 per microliter)

We are sad and pathetic, but we are sad and pathetic together, and that's what counts.

Part One: Women

There's a rule. Don't go to Yarn Expressions on one of their variable-percentage sale days. (Draw a ticket to determine your discount. Most people get 20% off, a few people get more, one person gets 75% off.) Sure, the flyers are lovely, and the possibility of drawing one of the lucky tickets is enticing, but the actual experience of trying to make a purchase at the store on sale day can only be described as craptastic.

You are cleaning right now, sorting clothes into 'keep' and 'donate' piles, with the end hope of having a usable closet again. I am in the computer room, new music playing, cooling down from my second workout of the day and trying to give you the room you need to finish your task in the space of a day.

A day, this day, your thirtieth birthday.

On the day I married you, I stood there, twenty-one, wondering what in the world we'd manage to do with our lives if we walked in the same direction.

It's been so long since the discovery of the synchronicity of our birthdays that the magic of it is a little lost on us now: yours the sixteenth, your sister Lori's the eighteenth, mine the twentieth. Instead, over the years, October has just become 'our month'; a birthday week shared by us and, later, unwittingly, by two cats who were born five years ago, sometime between your birthday and mine.

It had been nothing but a random provocation of muscle, an awkward-standing up that led to a consistent, throbbing ache in my right lat.

"Rub it?" I asked Jeff, hopefully. "Not like scritchies, but real massage work?"

I know this body like I know my own. Boastful girl, you know better; bodies change as lives change. The man of six years ago is not the man of now, no more than you are the sum total of six years' worth of change on the body that married him on that July day.

Silly girl.

We sat across from each other in the restaurant, sharing guilty giggles over queso on conversations that cannot be breathed into other ears.

"You know me well," he said, swiping extraneous sauce from his lips with the nearest napkin.

The fortunate part about not knowing what lies ahead of you is that sometimes, not knowing makes it possible to muddle through a difficult situation. Sometimes foreknowledge only makes what is coming more difficult to bear.