This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2013, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
Robert Kirby had the day off. This is a reprint of an earlier column.
I am not getting divorced. I wasn't 100 percent sure until yesterday. Prior to that, the closest I dared get to the house was a block.
All I said to my wife was, "I am going to buy a motorcycle." We were in bed with the lights out when I said it. This actually worked to my advantage because her long-standing argument against me having a motorcycle is that I have the natural reflexes of paint.
But I sensed something there in the dark. I rolled to the right just as it struck the pillow where my head had been. It was her way of reminding me that we have a contract.
It's actually more of a post-nuptial agreement. Shortly after we got married, some friends and I did something that landed me in the emergency room. My wife had to leave work to bring over some insurance papers.
Thirty stitches, five hours and a spectacular fight later we entered into an agreement whereby we each conceded certain behaviors in order for our marriage to continue. I have a copy right here.
My wife's requirements take up most of the page. I won't bore you with the details except to say that she missed her calling as a loan shark.
Among her demands are no more blowing up stuff, testing reloads in the house, jumping out of airplanes, pet snakes, drinking chip dip with a straw, road trips longer than four days, crossbows, spear guns, and absolutely no motorcycles.
My entire list of demands reads, "Hunka-Hunka Burning Love."
It seemed a fair bargain at the time. But then I was young and believed testosterone was an inexhaustible resource. And there's my signature at the bottom of the page.
I love my wife and want her to be happy. I'm also smart enough to know that a big reason I have a marriage, a home, grandkids and all my arms and legs today is because of our post-nup agreement.
But last week I was with some friends who stopped at Timpanogos Harley Davidson in Lindon. While they were doing whatever, I threw my leg over a 2008 Nightster 1200N. I haven't had a motorcycle since a 1971 accident on Wasatch Boulevard so spectacular that I still have leftover Sky Miles. Everything came back in a rush the open road, freedom and the feeling of power under me.
Back home, I explained to my wife that I was still too young to be old. My head needed to go 90 mph again before I was ready for a walker. Ever the practical one, she said she could make my head do that with a baseball bat and save us $12,000.
"You're expensive enough alive," she said. "We can't afford you dead. And I still like waking up next to you."
Cool. If that isn't hunka-hunka burning love, I don't know what is.
Robert Kirby can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.