There's a scene in the movie "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" in which the title characters have been chased to the edge of a cliff. Their only route of escape is to jump several stories into a churning river, but Sundance freezes.

"I can't swim," he confesses.

"Why, you crazy," Butch says. "The fall will probably kill you."

And, so, they jump. Together.

As the two of them plummet in slow motion, you somehow know that it's going to work. Partially you know this because it is early on in the film, and if Butch and Sundance were to die somewhat anticlimactically in the first 20 minutes, it probably wouldn't have become a classic. But more importantly, you know it will work out because Butch and Sundance are using the buddy system.

I have always been a fan of the buddy system. For those of you who were home-schooled, it is a method of pairing up children on school field trips. The children are instructed to hold their buddy's hand and watch out for one another.

At its heart, the buddy system was supposed to keep us from getting lost at the science museum or the tire factory or wherever it was we were going. If you had the right buddy, though, it didn't really matter where you went.

My wife was born and raised in Southern Utah, where the aforementioned movie scene was filmed. Seven years ago this week, in the area's 100-degree heat, we held each other's hands and a clergyman reading off a laminated 3-by-5 card announced that we were married.

For purposes of literary allusion, it would fit really well if we had then jumped a broom. But we didn't; we shoved cake in each other's face. Nonetheless, we both suddenly had someone with whom we could go charging off into life.

I wonder sometimes whether Rachel gets as much out of our marriage as I do. If I were to sit here and name off my personal qualities and the things that I have done of which I am proud, the majority of it would trace directly back to her. There are pieces of my life that define me now that simply would not exist if I hadn't been able to dupe her into marrying me.

In return for everything she gives me, she gets... I don't know... a guy who can sing Christmas carols like Metallica lead singer James Hetfield. Honestly, I am baffled as to why she stays with me. I feel as if I am playing a trick on the universe.

And it's a great trick -- one that seems to grow more wondrous each year. In our seven years, we have become so close that we no longer need to communicate in complete sentences. We have developed a mumbling code that consists mostly of glances and incomplete sentences. Here's an example.

ME: "Do you...?"
RACHEL: "In the bedroom. On your nightstand."
ME: "OK. Uhm..."
RACHEL: "Yes, I got some today."
ME: Stare at wall.
RACHEL: "Probably not for another hour."
ME: "Then I'm going to have a piece of cake."

Married couples using similar code may recognize that in the above conversation my wife has helped me locate my car keys, that she has been to the store and bought me beer and that I am going to have a piece of cake before dinner.

I guess having our own code means I wouldn't really have to tell my wife that I love her. I'm sure she knows. I'm sure she knows how much she builds me up, and how useless I would be without her. But I tell her, anyway.

I tell her all the time. And every year, in a sappy little column like this, I like to make sure that I tell her in front of the whole world -- or, at least, readers in key U.S. television markets -- how happy I am to be married to her:

I love you, Rachel. I hope I can keep you fooled for many more years to come.

This buddy system works for me. Somehow, I know that whatever it is we do, it's going to work. Wherever we go, we'll have fun because we're together.