Thirty years ago today, my father walked me down the aisle
in a white lace dress and into the arms of the man who would be my co-star in a lifetime
adventure. Back then, Tom joked about
his fear of commitment—agreeing in principle only to a five-year renewable
contract. Today, I eagerly await word of
whether he will pick up his option for another five years. In the meantime, I reminisce.
I remember that dreadfully hot and humid August day in South
Florida. A bride could not ask for a
less conducive location in which to try to achieve that moment of bridely
beauty. My naturally frizzy hair was
coated with some sort of miracle lacquer that made me cough for days. I wore only minimal make-up in fear that it
would slide down my face in a wash of tears and perspiration. As the harp music began, my father approached
Tom, asking him if he was sure he wanted to go through with it, reminding him
there was no return policy. When he signaled
his assent, my father did a happy dance, cheering for all to hear, “Yay, I’m
finally getting rid of her.”
I remember meeting with the rabbi to discuss the
ceremony. We wanted all the traditions—the
chupah, the breaking of the glass—that tied our day to history and heritage. Although we did not wish to write our own
vows or read poetry--popular in those days--I had one small but important request. I wished for us to say our vows directly to
each other rather than being fed snippets and repeating them from a third
party. The rabbi printed out the lines
for for us to study and memorize. In the
days leading up to the wedding, Tom kept teasing he hadn’t had the time to
look at them. I was convinced that he
was not taking this seriously and that he would produce cue cards during the
ceremony. But when the moment came, he took
my hands and looked me deep in the eyes, declaring his promise to love, honor,
and keep only me until death parted us.
It was just the first of many surprises from this brilliant and talented
man.
Over the years we have made each anniversary a little
special. It is our tradition to have
dinner together at a restaurant at which we have never eaten—a metaphorical way
of ensuring that there is always something new on the horizon in our
relationship. We have missed a handful
of birthdays together because of business commitments (both his and mine), but
we have managed to celebrate every anniversary together. On one anniversary I was eight months pregnant
with my daughter and barely able to sit through a romantic dinner
comfortably. Another year, Tom made reservations for dinner
on the wrong evening, but a quick check of the engraving inside his ring helped
him to catch his error before it was too late.
Tonight, if he renders a favorable verdict and signs on for
five more years, we will head out to the new incarnation of a famed chef’s
flagship restaurant for Mediterranean-themed cuisine. It will whet our appetites for the trip to
Italy we have planned to mark this event—even though the trip won’t take place
until October, when his schedule allows.
Tonight will be a simple evening, reflecting the simple couple that we
are. We will talk about our kids, who
have just returned to college yet are never far from our minds. We will talk about the house, and the projects
that are ongoing. We will try, and fail,
to remember where we spent each of our twenty-nine previous anniversaries.
By any standard, thirty years of marriage in today’s world
is not just a milestone, it is a miracle.
We are certainly not the same people that we were back then, but we are
fortunate that we have mostly grown together and not apart. We have shared interests, as well as a shared
stake in the welfare of children and family.
One of us does not sweat the small stuff, while the other has a good
sense of humor. Both are important
ingredients for enduring the long term. In
the end, the secret to marriage is not about who is allowed to take vows; it is
about taking seriously the commitments that you make together. For us, we would rather forgive each other
our flaws together than to live alone in pools of our own perfection. (And as he reads this, I guarantee my husband
is mouthing the words, “What flaws?” Don’t
worry, honey, I have a list.)
Still, Tom is a man full of surprises. He has not yet tipped his hand about whether
or not he is renewing our contract.
Every five years I get a little older, seeming less and less able to
compete with the field. I recall fondly the
glory days of our early anniversaries, but I have difficulty remembering what
he said to me fifteen minutes ago. After
feathering a nest, bearing children, enduring a demanding career, and undergoing
several surgeries, I am afraid a future with me offers no glamour and no new
mysteries. Perhaps this will be the year
that Tom trades me in for a fresh mate—one that can walk and run and ride
without creaking in every joint.
Some weeks ago, we were walking through Nordstrom. I saw him eying all the new arrivals in the
shoe department. “Look at these things
you are walking in,” I remarked of his Top-Siders, as old as the Ancient Mariner himself. “Why don’t you buy a
new pair?”
“I love these,” he said, without further consideration. “They fit me perfectly.”
Happy Anniversary, Tom.
You are a loving partner and my best friend. I can’t imagine sharing my life with anyone
else.
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