no one else
Fifteen years ago, J and I began our married life with: a wedding, naturally; an unwelcome downpour that became its own character in the story; a bunch of friends, family and mojitos; and a moment we took, just the two of us. This moment was recommended by someone - I wish I could remember who it was - who told me that at some point, on our wedding night, we should stand somewhere a little distanced from the event, and look at this gathering of people we loved.
We did it. Traipsed through the sodden marshland at my parents’ place in Maryland and stood a ways back from the tent, taking a beat to witness the joyful, dancing crowd and warm glow of lights. Honestly, I don’t think about it all the time or anything. I’m not sure J ever does. But I’m thinking about it right now.
This morning, our anniversary, I woke up in our king-sized bed. We bought it a few years ago when we moved into this house and J - who is very tall, one of the first things I noticed when I met him at another wedding, many months and heartfelt discussions before our own - is a devoted fan. “I can stretch out,” he says, illustrating his point, his long legs unfolding.
I’ve never really gotten used to the size of it, how you can be all the way across the mattress from the other person. I do like, however, that our entire family of five can fit in this bed and watch a nature documentary. Plus - J says, brushing off my reluctant acceptance - it’s not actually that far to the other side.
When I woke up this morning I thought about the years that had passed since that rainy night, the way you always imagine you’re supposed to on notable dates. What came to mind were the obvious things, like the celebrations and tragedies, travels and career changes, and three children that seem to have appeared overnight.
I thought, of course, about our life now in this pandemic, amid a contentious election season, amid all the weird, not-normal normalcy we’ve come to accept since March. We’re headed to Maine this weekend for a getaway before it gets colder and we have to reinvent our daily lives again, asking how best to “make it through.” We made a reservation for dinner, just the two of us, at a restaurant up there that we love - outside, because that’s the best way to keep everyone safe.
This morning, at least at first, I wasn’t thinking about our relationship, the thing that’s cradled all the rest. I know people talk about the importance of maintaining your marriage and I certainly recognize the wisdom in that. Yet sitting there with our traditional, before-the-kids-get-up cup of coffee, on what has always been my side of the bed (left), despite the fact that J has on numerous occasions tried to lead unsuccessful revolutions where we “switch sides just for the fun of it!” (I adore your enthusiasm, but no), I wasn’t thinking about the importance of “us” at all. And I should have been, right? I mean, fifteen years!
I was thinking about some minor stresses that had colored the week so far. Boring ones, but the thing is that even the boring ones have been interesting lately, because they are more difficult to surmount in this never-ending crusade. On any given day, the minor struggles get jumbled with the major ones. Sometimes, I think, we have to let it break us - maybe just a little - and start over.
(When I think about the benefits of living through this year, this is what I land on most often: that we’ve all learned to truly reckon with ourselves and the world).
One of the things bothering me this morning was that, due to locking my keys in the house yesterday afternoon, my carefully planned schedule went up in smoke and I wasn’t able to get J an anniversary gift, a task I’d left until the last minute. Maybe if it weren’t for the strange state of current affairs I would have completed it anyway. But I didn’t, and apologized. We agreed to make the most of our weekend away to commemorate the occasion.
He had, however, gotten me something. It seemed silly, he told me this morning, because he wanted to buy me several items related to a theme (this is a type of gift-giving J enjoys, and is good at) but he only had time to order one.
“Do you want it?” he asked me. I did.
He got out of bed and rummaged in his closet, plastic and cardboard rustling, and emerged, smiling, a little sheepish, with an LL Bean shoe box. The original idea was a series of gifts that would keep me cozy this winter, he said.
I opened the box. A pair of slippers, soft on the inside with hard soles, so you can putter around the house and get the newspaper in the morning; a perfect gift for exactly the kind of person I am, and I think always have been, despite trying to be less predictable in my youth.
I put them on. “Is that a dog?” I asked, looking at the design.
“Yes,” he said. “See. You put them on, and then you put your feet together, and it’s a dog.”
I put my feet together. On my left foot, the head and front legs, with the other half - the back legs and tail - on the right.
It made a dog. I burst into tears and told J it was the greatest gift, complete all on its own, and he asked me why I was crying, and laughed, and then I laughed and said I had no idea. But it served a purpose - a break in my overly thoughtful reverie - and I stopped worrying.
I didn’t need to glorify the occasion, it turned out, but I did need the comfort. I needed his company. It’s where I’m most at home, most capable, assured and optimistic
Crying and laughing, then planning and talking as we discussed the weekend ahead. That’s the sound that punctured the quiet on this October morning in our house, where three children lay sleeping in warm beds. One who, upon being woken up, would immediately begin complaining about the early start time in middle school, a normal complaint in this extraordinary year. Who could have imagined?
Not us, as we stood outside the tent on the night of our wedding, all those years ago. And this, I thought, as we began another day in this ever-surprising, beautiful life we’ve built, is how the next fifteen begin.