1987. Grad school. Hot tub party. The tub is one of those big mobile rentals that hold a dozen people. I'm bobbing around in the center, trying to keep the water from splashing into my beer. Over on one side, a blonde nymph is receiving the standard interrogation from the Lotharios who inhabit the local bars: "heybabe, whaddayadoo inyer sparetime?" They move to the far end of the tub when she replies "I teach martial arts." Soon after, probably due to my charismatic aura, she uses her toes to snag and relocate me to a seat next to her. Conversation ensues, followed by a few weeks of lust-driven encounters, followed by the horrified realization that we've fallen hopelessly in love. The next 33 years are a blur of living in sin, marriage, caribbean honeymoon, sweaty dojos, cats, graduations and professional employment, great danes, first house, gym-rattery, professional layoffs, losing first house, gig-consulting, second house, small business ownership and professional re-employments, chickens, goats, ridiculously huge gardens, more cats and great danes, retirement and finally strategic retreat into the north woods where we can grow ancient together.