On My Anniversary

Two years ago, on an uncommonly beautiful August afternoon, I got married.   I could go for the extra schmaltz and talk about how I “married my best friend,” but they print that shit under embossed castles and doves on terrible wedding invitations.  It may be almost impossible to talk about love and marriage without sliding into cliché, but castles and doves are a bit much for me.  Even I have some literary standards, so I will stick with an unembellished statement of fact.

Two years ago, on an uncommonly beautiful August afternoon, I got married.

Further details about the day would be superfluous, and would do nothing to tell you more about my husband, or about me, or about our relationship.  The details of our DIY wedding and reception wouldn’t tell you anything about us, other than that we are creative and cheap and are lucky to have really, really good friends.  While our vows would give some insight to us; I don’t want to share them here.

The truth is, of course, that our wedding was just a snapshot of our relationship.  It was the fork in the road where we turned off into marriage.  While lovely, it was what happened before and since our wedding that makes us, us.

We started on a sleeting, freezing night in January.  I was out drowning my considerable sorrows with a group of friends, and rather than leave early, I made arrangements to stay on a floor in the city.  I had crashed with The Boy and his roommate before, and I knew that it was highly unlikely they would chop me into pieces and feed me to the dog.

Oddly enough, this was not part of some grand plan of mine.  No, no.  It was just a whole lot of gin.

It never occurred to me that maybe, you know, he had some sort of grand plan. Consequently, as he was navigating me back to his house, I was shocked (shocked!) when he presented me with the following options:

“Turn left to go back to my house.  Turn right if you want to make out.”

I was flabbergasted.  Not angry, or freaked out, just completely blown away.  The only flirtation between us had been at the recent New Year’s Eve party, where as I stole his whiskey and searched for music on his computer, he asked, “So, is it too soon to fire on you?”  I had recently been through a completely terrible breakup of a fairly terrible relationship, and I would not have called that flirting—I thought he was just fucking with me, teasing me to make me feel better.  I thought he was joking–especially since he would never seriously use the words “fire on.”

Despite the pitch-perfect casualness of his delivery that night in my freezing car, I didn’t think he was joking.  I just could not imagine that he was serious.

“I’m sorry.  What?”

“Yeah, if you want to get back to the house, turn left.  If you want to go make out, make a right.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh-ho, yeah.  I’m sure.  Yeah.  But only if you want to.”

It was not that it was a bad idea.  It was that it was A Bad Idea.  My terrible ex-boyfriend? Worked together with The Boy in theater, and the ex was an asshole.  There were so many friends in common; so much interpersonal overlap between The Boy and I and between The Boy and the terrible ex and OH MY GOD THIS CANNOT END WELL.  This was a dreadful, dangerous idea clearly marked with caution tape and covered with awful, impaling spiky things.

So, I made a right.  Obviously.

I figured, what the fuck?  God hates a coward.   I know there was a bit more back and forth; I believe I suggested that this decision would lead to Trouble; and was he crazy; and was he really, really, really sure that this was something he wanted to do.  In the end, though, the conversation ended with us parked on a street in South City with the windows fogged up, necking like teenagers in a freezing car.

And I was right.  Terrible ex-boyfriend reacted like even more of a shit-heel than I had anticipated, and The Boy was forced to leave the theater group.  Some friendships, while perhaps they did not end, were certainly and greatly changed.  It proved, in fact, A Bad Idea.

Except for the bit about it being perfect.

Our, ahem, first date was that Sunday, just a rainy afternoon at a bar.  I drank red wine; he drank PBR and smoked.  It was nothing special, except that it was lovely.  I realized that his smile was adorable while he told me he had been a Nintendo champion in his youth. We laughed and talked for hours.  That evening we went to a potluck dinner with friends where no one knew about Friday, or our date, and where he stole a kiss in the kitchen and my knees went wobbly.

That was where we began, in a crappy January turned wonderful with secret kisses and silly dates.  How could I not fall in love with a man who didn’t pause when I asked him to go ice skating?   How could I not stay in love with the man who indulged my love of  Thai food despite his own indifference to it? How could I not marry that smile so that I could have it in my life forever?

So, today is the anniversary of our wedding.  Our wedding was fantastic, but it was just one day.  It was not nearly as fantastic as the fact that we stumbled upon one another; that he asked me that crazy question; that I took the risk.  Our wedding was not nearly as fantastic as how kind he is to me, or how much fun we have together.  Most importantly, it wasn’t as fantastic as us being in this together.  When things are bad, we manage to fight together, rather than fighting one another.  That is rare; and it is hard; and it is wonderful.

Happy Anniversary, Handsome.  I would marry you again if I could.