So I’m telling you that marrying an outdoorsman leads to all kinds of alone time.

My husband and I have a bizarre dynamic — we were married before my husband’s love for the outdoors was fully, well, fleshed. It’s like I married a bald Chia Pet I intended to just sit there, but someone put seeds on him, and now I have to do all this work to keep the thing going.

Before my husband’s affair with the outdoors, we had no knowledge of the significance of Nov. 9. Except, as my dad pointed out, it is the eve of the anniversary of the founding of the Marine Corps.

My wedding was planned for the eve of the anniversary of the founding of the Marine Corps. My dad felt this warranted his giving me away to the tune of “The Marine’s Hymn,” what with him being a Marine and all.

I should consider myself lucky he didn’t want to walk me to the altar by way of the Halls of Montezuma.

Once my husband became a deer hunter, we discovered the very best time of year for that activity falls over Nov. 9. So finding out I was pregnant one Nov. 9 in the early aughts meant waiting for my husband to be out of his tree stand — and in cell phone range — before I could tell him the deer weren’t the only ones with a successful rut that year.

We never acknowledged our anniversary in the pre-outdoorsman years anyway. We’d often forget until thoughtful relatives sent us cards. “I forgot,” one of us would say, holding forth an anniversary card from an aunt or cousin. “Me too,” the other would say. We’d shrug and move on.

Instead, we have always marked our first date by holding a celebration on Feb. 11. We don’t have a Queen Elizabeth-level platinum jubilee on Feb. 11 — had you asked either one of us on that chilly February evening 20-plus years ago, we would have said we were looking, well, for a fall rut and nothing more.

That the universe had different plans for us doesn’t mean either of us now expects fireworks every February. We just acknowledge its significance.

But I did something a few years ago, something that birthed chickens just now coming home to roost.

My husband had an opportunity to volunteer with an organization close to his heart. When he waffled, I encouraged him to give it a go.

Then this week arrived, with all of its roosting chickens.

He’s away, volunteering with that organization.

He won’t be here for Feb. 11.

I’m not exactly sure how I managed to eradicate not one but two anniversaries this year. It probably didn’t help my cause to compare my husband to a Chia Pet.

The lost anniversary — and a few other strokes of bad luck lately — propelled me to buy sage. I had planned to hold a sage burning, to ward off the evil spirits clearly infecting my house. But then I saw Seth Rogen’s character in Pam & Tommy burn sage before distributing the tape of their rut.

I don’t want to be like that guy.

My Chia Pet called me today. He found Michael Myers beer while he was off volunteering. As in Halloween Michael Myers. If you’re going to be away for Feb. 11, make it count. Bring back some Halloween beer.

We can always celebrate on Feb. 12.