The woman who is my wife and I celebrated the 29th anniversary of our wedding this past weekend. We celebrated the event by spending a couple of days in sunny Eastern Washington.

It was a wonderful experience, and marked the first time in a decade that we didn’t celebrate our anniversary with a shared Blizzard at the Dairy Queen in Poulsbo following a Viking Cup soccer game.

Being married to the same woman for nearly three decades doesn’t necessarily make me an expert on successful marriages. I can’t even be sure why our marriage has lasted as long as it has. I suspect it’s related to the fact that, before we became husband and wife, Wendy and I were best friends, and still are.

I think it’s also critical that for any relationship to last as long as ours, there has to be a fair amount of flexibility and forgiveness on both sides.

Petty grievances and minor annoyances have to be overlooked or accommodated, and not allowed to fester and foment bitter discontent and smoldering resentment.

In my own case, for example, I have come to accept the fact that my darling spouse will always drive too fast and follow too closely to the car in front of her. In the interest of marital harmony, I no longer mention these concerns to her when we are driving together. Instead, I physically brace myself in the passenger seat, cover my eyes and whimper like a doomed baby seal whenever Wendy is at the wheel. Such are the subtle accommodations that make for a long and happy marriage.

Likewise, I’ve accepted the fact that Wendy will never put dishes in the dishwasher in a systematic and orderly fashion. Instead, she randomly tosses them willy-nilly into the dishwasher, mixing glasses with plates, and plates with cookware, and silverware with God-knows-what-all in a chaotic, vaguely incestuous, dirty-dish free-for-all.

But you’ll never hear me complain about such a petty matter. It’s not a problem for me at all. I hardly ever think about it anymore.

It’s a minor burden I’m happy to live with, a small sacrifice I make for the woman I love and whose kitchen habits are otherwise exemplary. Except for the ketchup fetish, of course. And the deal with the Tupperware.

And I certainly would never complain about the fact that Wendy sets her car keys down in a different place every time she comes into the house, leading to the inevitable “Have you seen my keys” game that we play every time we leave the house to go somewhere.

If they’re not on the hearth or the kitchen counter, in her purse, in the pocket of a jacket she was wearing, or on the dining room table, then it’s likely she never brought them in the house at all, but left them dangling from the ignition.

I don’t mind frantically scouring the house for the misplaced keys whenever we go out together, and I would certainly never point out to my dear wife that I set my car keys down in the exact same spot every time I come in the house and therefore never have to look for them.

Nope, pointing out that sort of thing would be small and petty and not conducive to a healthy and sustainable marital relationship, so I never give it a thought. Doesn’t bother me a bit. Couldn’t care less about it. Not a problem. No big deal.

I could go on, but I’m sure you get the point. There’s no need for me to itemize the many and varied burdens I endure in the interest of maintaining a happy marriage. One of the things I won’t mention is Wendy’s habit of pressing her cold feet against mine in bed. Or her habit of ordering things in restaurants that are not quite on the menu, such as the time she ordered the “Meatless Special” with meat.

Another thing I won’t mention is how Wendy likes to prune trees and trim bushes, but doesn’t really like to pick up pruned limbs or trimmed branches, evidently preferring to see the smile of joy and discovery on my face when I nearly run over them a couple of days later with the lawnmower.

Small stuff, all of it. Just take a deep breath and let it go. Live and let live, that’s my motto.

We’ve already starting making plans for celebrating our 30th anniversary. I don’t want to give away any secrets here, but I’m sort of leaning toward an Italian theme, if you get my drift. Yes, that’s right. I’m thinking of “All You Can Eat Pasta Night” at the Olive Garden in Silverdale. Don’t tell Wendy if you see her; I want it to be a surprise.

Tom Tyner is an attorney for the Trust for Public Land. He is author of “Skeletons From Our Closet,” a collection of writings on the island’s latte scene.