Hello, I would like to buy a fish license, please.

The first workday of the year brings a trip to the town hall to renew Marley's license. He got number 12, which is pretty good, considering that I didn't get to the clerk's office until after nine o'clock. We've yet to make to a single digit. Here's hoping that we get the chance to do so for years to come. (Marley turns 14 in April.)
While at the window, I decided to get fishing licenses as well. Sandra's going to have more time at the camp this year, so we decided that it would be good to have a license to go along with the time to fish.
It seemed like a very good idea until the point at which I had to fill out the identification portion of her license application. Most of it was straight-forward. Birthday, place of birth, all of that was fine. I've known the color of her beautiful blue eyes since the first time we met. What I didn't and don't know was her weight.
We've been married a long time and take our vows (for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health) very seriously. We know a lot about each other. We know each other's password mnemonics. I just never needed to know her weight.
One of Hakkarainen's Laws of Social Order goes something like this - "Nothing good comes from estimating someone's age or weight."
Not only did I not know what it was, I have no real idea what it should be.
It's just a number, right? Pick a number, plead ignorance, ask for forgiveness.
The seconds clunked along like old gears while the patient town clerk looked on.
It's just a number, right? I picked one, paid for the licenses, came along home, told the story, asked for forgiveness, and changed the subject. She returned the favor and didn't look at the number while I was watching. That's how good marriages work.

Originally posted at OntheCommon.com