In Marriage, Two’s a Charm

July 17, 2007
Article and Illustration By Jim Burger

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“It takes two.” Were truer words ever spoken?

I recall a motorcycle trip with my girlfriend/future wife to Revel Grove, Oxfordshire, England. The motorcycle and girlfriend were real enough, but Revel Grove is fictional — it being the mythical, 16th-century village of the Maryland Renaissance Festival. I was drawn not by the fair itself but rather by an image of food I had seen on the festival’s ubiquitous advertisements — a giant turkey leg being devoured by a portly gentleperson of the 1500s. His look of carnivorous delight bewitched me and propelled me deep into the rarely visited world of Anne Arundel County. My girlfriend could not have cared less and just came along for the ride.

When we arrived I paid the admission and quickly set off in search of the turkey leg vendor. We passed and ignored a multitude of residents of the late Middle Ages — noblemen, serfs, wenches, monks, soldiers on leave from service to the crown, innumerable jugglers and what had to be the highest concentration of incense and crystal merchants in the world.

We finally found the turkey peddler and stood in line for an eternity. “Just get one and we’ll share it,” the love of my life suggested. “No,” I snapped, “I want my own.” I bought two legs, handed her hers and scurried away to eat like a true Lord of the Realm. I attacked that limb with glee, but my teeth bounced off its surface harmlessly. I stared at it for a moment and tried again. I didn’t make a dent. After 10 minutes I gave up. I had gnawed a hole about the size of a quarter in the petrified skin, and my lips had been sucked dry of all moisture by its astounding salt content. It might as well have been a leftover from Leonardo da Vinci’s last supper. I looked around for my bride-to-be. She was sitting on a stone wall, watching people walk by and absently tapping the bottom of her shoe with her untouched turkey leg. I snatched it from her and threw both legs into the woods. “Let’s go,” I growled. “We’re leaving.” I have never returned to Revel Grove.

Once we were married, the necessity of two of everything quickly became apparent. We purchased a three-bedroom house. We sleep in one of those bedrooms, but the remaining two have been divided between us. Not shared, divided. Mrs. Burger has her dressing room and I have my study. Neither of us would ever dream of entering the other’s sanctuary uninvited. Half the time we knock on the doors as if we’ve never met.

Our house had one full bathroom, and for many years it was sufficient. Eventually we built a second one in our basement. Almost overnight the “guest” bathroom became “my” bathroom. Every morning I take that long, chilly walk down two flights. From time to time I still try to use the upstairs facilities.

“Where are you going?” my wife asks as I pass by her in the hall. “To the bathroom,” I answer. “It’s the other way,” she says coldly.

I even noticed that my toothbrush had disappeared from the upstairs bath. My wife blamed the dog. Plausible, I thought, realizing only later that we have no dog.

The greatest benefit to this binary existence is as simple as a cup of coffee. I drink regular, the way God intended. Mrs. Burger drinks decaffeinated. As blissful newlyweds this was the routine: Whoever got out of bed first made the coffee — two pots, one of each. Except the Mister Coffee we received as a wedding gift came with only one pot. So a container (usually an old pickle jar) had to be found to hold the extra before the second batch could be made. Did I mention the coffee maker had to be cleaned between brewings? Did I mention the whole time this dance was going on the first coffee was getting cold? Eventually it became a battle of wills to see who could stay in bed longer. The record still stands at 3 p.m.

This medieval thinking ended in a motel room during one of my many out-of-town trips as a globetrotting photographer. Through observation I noticed a small coffee maker on the Formica counter in the bathroom. A variety of powdered hot drinks was placed in a tray nearby. I had a choice of beverages. Could this be true? I took the pot and held it in both hands. Was it possible to have two small coffee makers in our home rather than one larger one? Yes, yes, I believed it was. I unplugged the machine and set it on the bed. I pulled back the curtain, allowing sunlight to bathe the room and shine through the empty glass pot. It was a rebirth — an enlightenment. We would have two coffee makers — one for me and one for my wife. Balance would be restored to our marriage. And as it turned out, my friends were right. I truly was a Renaissance Man.

Filed Under: View From Mars

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