We have this exact same fight every three years.

In my corner: 1) You are not my crying shoulder. 2) You are not love suicide. 3) You are not the greatest fan of my whole life.

In his corner: 1) You never want to have sex with me.

You’d think that after twenty-five years together we’d have enough material to pad this out a little. Make it last a longer than an hour of shouty whining, followed by twenty minutes of "just shut up already" sex. We used to promise each other changes, now we just zip up, cork up and let the pressure build for another three years. We fight about nothing else.

By the way, it is not true that I never want to have sex with him. According to those degrading and silly polls, we’re on point. It is also not true that he isn’t my crying shoulder. His shoulders? Cried on. And while he isn’t the greatest fan of my whole life (that would be my mom and dad), he claps with appropriate fervor when it’s deserved or needed.. The love suicide, well that’s songwriter’s nonsense thrown in there to make sure he doesn’t win. I mean, I can have sex with him. He can’t love suicide. Or he won’t.

Lately and for the past several years, we have what I call "express lane sex." When you’ve shopped in the same supermarket for as long as we have, you know where they keep the milk. So you sprint to the milk aisle, grab the milk, pay in cash and you’re out. Which isn’t to say the sex is bad. Oftentimes it’s sweet, or comforting. Sometimes, if it has been a while, it’s hurried and desperate. And every now and then, it’s more intense than we expected. But twenty-five years in, it’s always familiar.

Then, one day last week. The milk moved. The actual milk, in the supermarket. I find a store employee and inquire about the milk’s new location. "They moved it to produce," he says. "Or the organic stuff anyway. The rest of it is across from the freezer case." (I buy the organic milk because, with everything else, nobody in our family needs an extra nipple.)

Trekking back to produce, the whole milk moving thing strikes me as prophetic. Only a few days earlier, during lunch with the girls, I had explained "express lane sex" to hoots of recognition from the married gals, and pitying looks from the single ones. Our anniversary is nearing and so is Valentines’s Day, and I think it might be time to shake things up. Do something different. Move the milk.

So, I do what every suburban wife does when she wants to spice up her love life without awkward sex toys or cheating. I visit Victoria’s Secret. I usually buy my underwear in a six pack, like beer. While I love clothes, I’m not interested at all in the clothes under the clothes, so for me, Victoria’s Secret is another galaxy.

An eager young saleswoman with a measuring tape around her neck welcomes me to her planet. We quickly agree on English, and when I tell her about my mission, she takes me on as a makeover project. Which could be cute or insulting. I choose cute and go with that. Eventually we settle on a corset top thing and a panty thing, something you might see on Come Hither Barbie. It doesn’t look too bad if I don’t turn around, or sit or run. Dear God, no running. Best of all it has a matching robe. With that and an elaborate, strategic lighting design, I figure the milk is as good as moved.

On our anniversary, I make his favorite meal. Pad Ped with Shrimp. Thai Hot. So hot we laugh about being masochists, as we wipe beads of sweat from our faces. And champagne, because champagne makes him silly, and he’s rarely silly. We cuddle on the couch for a bit, and then he rises and tugs my hand.

"Wait, wait," I say. "I got something for you." I sprint off to the bathroom to struggle into my costume. The costume that will change everything. I am adjusting the boobs in the corset top when my husband opens the door to the bathroom. I scramble for the robe – because, damn, this outfit needs a robe – but it’s nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, what’s taking so long..." He steps in and blinks several times. "Wow!" he says. "This is new." And then he does something very wrong. The very wrongest thing that could be done. He reaches over and tweaks the little roll of pudge that is exposed where the corset top doesn’t quite meet the panty thing.

I inhale deeply and release it as a sort of a strangled hiss. I have never made this sound before.

He steps back, his arms flapping around his body in confusion, like he’s a robot whose circuits have fried. "I’m sorry! I’m sorry! You’re beautiful! I love it..."

"Why on God’s fucking green earth would you do something like that!? I’m standing here in these doll clothes, under fluorescent lighting..."

"I know! I know! You just looked nervous, I was trying to lighten the mood. The champagne, you know what that does to me...."

"Oh you did something to the mood, I’ll tell you that." The corset thing comes off, the panty thing comes off. I kick them into a corner. On go the ratty yoga pants and the pro-vegetarian t-shirt my daughter made that reads Your whole family is made of meat. "I mean, I know I’ve gained five or eleven pounds, but it’s not like I have to shake my panties out and fold them into thirds! You aren’t supposed to notice. You aren’t allowed to notice."

He is on the ropes and he knows it. In the more rural counties of my mind, that pinch could get him sentenced to a crotch kicking carried out by all the women in the village. He comes out swinging defensively. "Remember this morning when I asked you if you liked my new yellow shirt? You said, ‘Yes. It matches your teeth.’"

"Because I bought you those white strips and you haven’t used them. It’s my job to keep you presentable. If you look bad, it comes back on me."

"How is that different from me noticing that you’ve gained some weight? So what? I have too."

"Here’s how our marriage works," I inform him. "I might say, ‘If you had a band your band’s name would be My Dead Tooth.’ And you’d say, ‘Well, if you had a band your band’s name would be Awesome.’"

He scoffs. "So you get to be funny and tell the truth, and I have to lie?"

"Okay," I say. "What’s my band’s name? Come up with one."

He is a brilliant man. Analytical in the way ants are analytical, which is deeply. He is not, however, a quipper. He struggles mightily and then shrugs. "I don’t know. This is stupid."

"See? You’re not funny and you’re not mean enough to tell the truth. What else is there but lying?"

"I am too funny!" he insists.

"Twice a year! Twice a year you’re funny! I’m always surprised."

Clearly wounded, he says, "You think if things are funny, they don’t hurt."

"No, I think if things are going to hurt, they might as well be funny."

The argument dies quickly after that. We both have dull champagne headaches, and then there’s the sex to be had. It is our anniversary.

Later, he is asleep and I get up to ramble. Feeling guilty (he’s funny three times a year at least), I pack him a lunch. A tuna salad sandwich cut on the diagonal, a cup of homemade tomato soup, chips, the blondies he likes, with the white chocolate chips and pecans. An extra one for him to share. I write his name on the bag, because for some reason that tickles him like nothing else.

The next morning, I am dozing when I smell toothpaste and hear the crinkle of a clutched paper bag. He leans down and kisses my cheek. He whispers into my ear, "Your band’s name is Awesome."

I snuggle back into my pillow, smiling. Then my eyes fly open as I wonder...Was that? Could that be? Love suicide? I'm thinking it might have been.