That’s how long I will be married as of October 28. Yep, five whole years.
Actually, Chris and I have been together for ten years. But that’s a sordid story involving mixed drinks, the Kiss song “Beth”, Chris entering the ladies’ room at a local bar and my mom receiving a frantic phone call from me at 2am (Note to all of you doe-eyed newbies to the serious dating scene – never, even in a moment of weakness, ever disparage your date in any way to your mother. Someday, when your date is actually your husband, your mother will give him the evil eye from across the room because she’ll remember no matter what you say after that…)
As I have waxed on about before, I am crazy in love with my husband. No, he’s not perfect. He has an unhealthy relationship with ice hockey and the Philadelphia Flyers. He used to think Catherine Zeta Jones was attractive (almost unforgiveable in my book). He refuses to clip his toenails. He doesn’t like condiments of any sort except for hot mustard (yes, that means no ketchup – I don’t get it). He is not an Elvis fan. He is addicted to his Blackberry in a disturbing narcotic-y kind of way. He refuses, absolutely refuses, ever to change the toilet paper roll when it’s empty – or the paper towel roll. He insists on reloading the dishwasher and the grocery cart (yeah, I’m not kidding) because he thinks I’m too sloppy. It takes him 15 minutes to take a picture. He does not know the difference between a dinosaur and a dragon (made all the more sad because his alma mater is the Drexel Dragons).
And yet, I’m still mad for him.
Many of my friends think he’s not a romantic at all. Two friends in particular constantly nag him because they don’t think he spends enough time and attention on me at holidays and stuff. He is awful at dates and birthdays in years past have not been stellar.
But he’s one of those guys who isn’t obvious about things. He’s thoughtful and romantic and thoughtful in his own way.
Every year since the girls have been born, he has made me a bound photo album with captions; I have three now and they are my most favorite things that I own. He once danced ballet and sang “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina” because he remembered that was what my college roommate, Brenda, used to do to make me laugh. He bought me lots of stripey socks because I like them (c’mon – who buys socks for their wife on purpose?). He has been to not one, but two country music concerts, because I wanted to go. He’s watched pig races at the NC State Fair. He learned “Brown Eyed Girl” on the guitar to play at our wedding with his college band. He sat in my great-grandmother’s house in SC when it was a zillion degrees outside and the heat was on inside, and answered “Yes ma’am” and “No ma’am” to her even though he didn’t understand a word she said. He’s wandered through some not so great neighborhoods in New York City and Philadelphia in search of soul food. He watched almost four hours of Gone With the Wind on video because it was my favorite movie – and didn’t freak out when he found out that I accidentally forgot to tape the last five minutes (it was on TBS, it’s very confusing).
And he puts up with my family, for Pete’s sake. To paraphrase Dylan McDermott’s character in Steel Magnolias, “That alone is worth getting married for.”
Sigh. He’s a good guy, that husband of mine. Every now and again, I wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t met. And for the life of me, I can’t even imagine not having met and married him… I probably wouldn’t have stayed in Philly. I wouldn’t have gotten a dog and would likely still be scared of dogs. I doubt I would have visited Germany or San Juan or Castine, Maine – some of my favorite places. And I wouldn’t have the two most adorable girls in the world.
My whole world would be different. And not in a good way.
Some day, I’ll spill the whole story of our meeting, not dating, dating, not getting married and getting married. It’s fairly entertaining (hey, I won ten cases of Perrier for telling the story once before). I will just say, in the event that you’re unattached and reading, that it’s a story about keeping an open-mind – I met Chris in law school and thought he was so not my type. Only he really was.
My mom now thinks Chris is a saint. He is a pretty darn good guy (hardly saintly – I don’t think that saints pat themselves on the back because they can pick socks up with their toes). And I am lucky to have made it 1,825 days being married to him. With any luck, we’ll make it 18,250 more…
So, happy anniversary to me!
