My wife and I love surprises. In our 10 years together, she's expertly planned two surprise birthday bashes for me. Meanwhile, I've fathered four children with three other women. Surprise!

Okay, that's a total lie. I made that up to look like a man of mystery. Truth is I'm the least surprising guy in history. My website reads like a police confession, and I update Facebook whenever I fart.

But when we first dated, I loved surprising her: Chocolates. Roses. Jumping out of cakes. Then we married, adopted a dog and moved into a tiny condo. Now we share the same lease, closet, razor and laptop. When she comes home for dinner, I don't ask how her day was, because we've read each other's blogs.

I've gained so much from this amazing marriage. But one thing I've lost is my element of surprise. Until now...our five-year anniversary. Instead of getting Sarah to plan the restaurant like usual, I took charge. I vowed to give her a Magical Mystery Tour with two important rules: 1) "You can ask, tickle, or waterboard me, but I'll refuse to divulge any details;" 2) "Don't search the laptop for clues."

My secret plan was to kidnap Sarah and surprise her five times in one romantic weekend.

Surprise 1: Abduction 

Friday 11:50 a.m.: Ten minutes early. My taxi slowly circles Sarah's office building. 

12 noon: Her boss (my accomplice) invites Sarah for coffee. They exit the building. Go time! I call Sarah's cell and say, "Close your eyes." Then I blindfold her and whisper, "Honey, I'm kidnapping you for love." Then I stuff her in the taxi.

12:02 p.m.: Sarah protests, "No-no-no! I'm working ... my computer's on!" The driver smiles. Wow. How frighteningly easy it is to blindfold a woman and convince everyone she's my wife.

Surprise 2: Getaway 

12:09 pm -Taxi stops. I remove the blindfold. She blinks and sees Toronto City Centre Airport. I tell her we're flying to New York City. She shrieks with joy. It's the perfect fifth anniversary gift. New York has five boroughs and her friends tell me the World's Best Girly Shopping is around Fifth Avenue at East 55th Street.

When I booked our flight, I told Porter Airlines my dream of flying Sarah to NYC in style. Their staff found it utterly romantic. So at check-in, Porter's female counter agents greet us with huge smiles. "Why is everyone grinning at me?" asked Sarah. I reply, "They were in on my secret. And maybe they're imagining someone doing this for them, too."

1:30 pm: Propellers spinning, we glide over puffy cupcake clouds. Which reminds me of my carry-on. I give Sarah five custom cupcakes, decorated in our wedding colours with the number 5 on top.

1:45 p.m.: Complimentary wine. Premium food. Nice attendants in retro uniforms. Gotta say: Taking a cheap boutique flight is infinitely better than enduring beat-down Air Canada grumps who make you feel like a jerk just for squeezing onto their airbus.

1:52: Sarah kisses my neck and murmurs, "You're the best husband in the universe." I smile and say, "That's your Stockholm Syndrome talking."

Surprise 3: Incoming 

3:20 p.m. Newark Airport: 
I hand our Customs Declaration to a tough Homeland Security guard. I tell him about the anniversary kidnapping and ask him not to reveal our hotel name.

He laughs and says, "No problem, buddy, I'll keep your secret. Gotta 25th anniversary coming up and I'd better do something big for my lady. Paris? Rome? Dunno but I'd better step up. Hooray for love!"

3:30 p.m.: At the transit ticket counter, I act confused. "Bus or train into Manhattan? Friday rush hour, so they'll be packed. Could be two hours."

Then I drop the bomb: "Baby, Manhattan needs to see you fast. So we're taking an eight-minute helicopter into New York!"

5:45 p.m.: Chopper time. The US Helicopter pilot gives us the thumbs up. Sarah shakes her head in wonder. 
 Her first helicopter. The other passenger is a Parisian jet-setter. "Congratulations," he tells her. "This is the most romantic way to see Manhattan."

5:46 p.m.: We hover over water towards the sexiest island in North America. We vault the Statue of Liberty, then arc counter-clockwise around the Lower East side. The sun shoots through the skyscrapers as if it's aching to touch and welcome us.

Surprise 4: Have Mercer, Baby

6:15 p.m. SoHo: 
Our taxi drops us at a six-storey Romanesque building. I hustle her inside. No signage in the lobby. But from the Turkish carpet and leather banquettes, Sarah senses it's a luxury boutique hotel.

6:17 p.m.: I open our room. She walks in - and starts laughing and twirling around the most beautiful hotel suite I have ever seen. Hardwood floors. Walk-in sex shower. Pillars puncturing a nine-foot ceiling. French doors opening to a Juliet balcony. And a bedroom big enough to play wheelchair basketball.

The manager has left us five truffles and Veuve champagne on ice. 
"Sweetheart, welcome to the Penthouse Loft of the Mercer Hotel!" 
We high-five, then giggle and dance around like we're auditioning for Flashdance II: The Musical. 


Surprise 5: The Formula 

Saturday 8:30 p.m.: 
Fifth Avenue @ Central Park. My last surprise. Privately, Sarah is worried I'm taking her on the cheesy horse buggy ride. But instead I escort her into the Plaza's Champagne Bar for a bottle o' bubbly.

8:34 p.m.: Circa 1907, the Plaza Hotel is a stately gem that's hosted so many classic Manhattan films: North by Northwest; Network; Home Alone 2. Even better, our velvet chairs have wrap-around headrests in case you need a boozy snooze. Tears in her eyes, Sarah says I'm following my Dad's wise advice. Married 40 happy years, Dad told me, "Show her you love her, every single day."

She says, "Let's renew our contract for another five years." I caress her ring hand and admit that the last true surprise I gave her was moments after we were married, when we slipped off our rings to see what we'd secretly engraved for each other. On my ring, she'd engraved "Ken + Ten" - exactly what I'd engraved on hers.

It's my formula for how Sarah makes me feel. I coined it when we fell in love. My roommate asked how my girlfriend was working out. I said, "Buddy, she makes me Ken + Ten. If a woman makes you feel exactly like yourself, except 10 per cent better, marry her, see the world with her, and love her forever."

I did, I do, and I will.

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Ken Hegan is a Toronto writer and man about town. He's aware that husbands will hate him because their wives are clipping this column and taping it to their fridge. He's comfortable with that.

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