"Snails? You're cooking snails for our anniversary dinner?" Babe's face is a mask of horror. "How about something normal like steak and potatoes."

I close my eyes and count to ten. "Not snails. Escargot. And it's only the first course. The hors d'oeuvre. Besides, neither one of us is normal. Our tastes in food ought to reflect that."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatcha cooking up for the second course? Mealy Bug soup?"

My well laid plans for a romantic anniversary dinner at home with just the two of us is not looking good.

For weeks I have been thinking that our years together have passed too quickly and that we don't seem to spend much time alone anymore. I miss that. Tonight, I want us to sit across a candlelit table from each other and make small talk and remember the fun times we've had over the years. I will laugh at his bad jokes and he will say, "Yum" to my less than perfect cooking.

I picture him pouring the champagne and saying, "Do you remember that guy who married us? The one who looked like 'Radar' on M.A.S.H.?"

I'll reply, "What I remember is how you stared at him just before you burst out laughing in front of God and everybody while he bounced on his heels waiting for your response. That's what I remember."

Babe, of course, will roll his eyes at that, the way he always does. "Yeah, well, unlike you, nobody heard me giggle when asked the 'For Richer or Poorer question.' "

I'll have to give him a point or two for that.

I imagine us remembering the people who attended our wedding. Tom, Lynn, Judy, Doug, Jane. Have their lives evolved over the years, I might ask, as much as ours have?

I picture the table set with our good china, good silver, the champagne flutes saved from our long ago wedding. The tapers will gradually dwindle down to soft, waxy puddles while music wafts through the room, a poetic breeze snuffing out the overgrown world beyond our little nest.

I will wear the same dress I wore on our wedding day IF it still fits. He will tell me I look prettier in it now than when I walked down the aisle. Getting him to change out of his sweaty golf clothes and into something George Hamilton would approve of will be a real stretch. Maybe I'll just put out a good pair of jeans and some clean underwear for him. I will let him know that to me he is more handsome than ever and he'll believe me because the truth will shine in my eyes. When did clothes ever really make the man, anyhow?

I can see the two of us content to be alone for a few precious hours. Joining us at some point during the evening will be all of the memories the two of us have created. Our shared reminiscence will need no prelude, no clarification.

While he pours more champagne and toasts our days, weeks, months and years together, he will tell me he thinks often of the day we met. I will hum a bit of Roberta Flack's, The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. He won't frown or beg me to keep quiet. And I, spilling over with champagne and romantic whimsy, will keep right on humming.

Neither of us will bring up past disagreements like the dented fender on the new car only two days old or the coffee stain on the carpet smack in the middle of the living floor. Gone for a while will be the notion that he is not always appreciated for taking out the garbage each night. Nor will I nag him about the prepared favorite meals served over the years that were never acknowledged.

On second thought, maybe I'll just slip it in when he least expects it. After all, we can't focus all night long on those first wonderful I can't live another minute without you days, or we might not make it to the second course.

I am sure of one thing. We will dance. We will kick up our heels because we never pass up a chance to dance. Earlier today, I loaded the CD player with romantic songs guaranteed to bring out the warm fuzzies.

Between courses, I see us waltzing to the closing refrains of poignant ballads, though not always with our feet. At times, we will glide smoothly together with only a look designed to keep our inner music playing. < Sigh >

If things go as I hope they do, the evening will evolve in layers, one course following the other. After too many sips of champagne and a tummy full of his favorite foods, when I am convinced that he has mellowed out sufficiently, I'll bring up the trip to Paris or Rome I'd like for us to take in the Spring.

"Maybe we aughta think about Austria, too," he'll say mockingly because he'll be thinking I have sipped way too much bubbly.

Without a moment's pause, I will counter with Australia, but he'll simply grin knowing, as I do, that it's all in the game.

We are old, Babe and me, although we don't feel as old as we are. The way I see it, Babe and I keep finding new things to love about each other. Okay, so he won't wear his Tux tonight. Big deal. In fact, he might not even change into the clothes I put out for him. He may fall asleep while I'm tossing the salad the way he does when we watch a chick flick on television.

But none of that can ever negate the way we feel about each other, even after all these years. Those feelings are as young as first love. What we have today may not be quite as fresh or filled with dreams as when we walked down the aisle, but I'm hoping that some of it will surface again tonight along with the good wine, great food and slow dancing.

We need to act fast, Babe and me, before his bad knees start cracking or my bad back steals the slow shuffle from our anniversary waltz.