22 YEARS
Twenty-two years ago today I married the finest man. Intelligent, handsome, funny, kind, generous, creative, healthy, selfless, quiet, genuine. I really lucked out.
"You and Bill could not be any more different," everyone informs me.
"Thanks?"
Everyone has her ying to her yang, the macaroni to her cheese, the glaze to her donut. But when people contrast me to Bill, I spiral until some serious self-reflection. And power laugh. It's clearly not a compliment. The best part is listening to people try to talk themselves through their explanations. I make them suffer. "No! It's just that Bill is so quiet and smart, and you know . . . "
"Yes. I do know. I am loud and ignorant?" Can you see them squirming? I'm so mean.
Admit it. We all critique the unions in our lives. You know the couples:
"What do they do for a living? He's an attorney and she's an acrobat?" Interesting.
"Where are they from? He's from Sauganash and she's from Bridgeport?" No way!
Then there's politics.
"He wears a MAGA hat and she works for Greenpeace?" For real?
All couples have their differences.
The hard part is accepting those differences without killing each other in the process.
Our biggest difference is that Bill is vegan and I'm a rib-eye. We accept this and compromise; I'll eat the lentil and sweet potato burger. Could you pop a wedge of Maytag bleu on that for me? Maybe a chicken thigh on the side? Thanks, hon.
Bill isn't much of an arguer, because he doesn't have strong opinions about matters that aren't important anyways. Unlike me. Avoiding 95th Street on a Saturday is a value I hold dearly. So when Bill takes a right on Leavitt and heads west to 95th Street I re-consider how on God's green earth we ended up together. Just like Bill can't believe I am going to dispose of a jelly mason jar that could be reused as the perfect vessel for iced tea. He remembers his dad mowing the lawn, shirtless, while swigging lemonade out of a 32 ounce mayonnaise jar. Well, now that you put it that way, let me clean that out. Not that I feel like an asshole now or anything.
It takes many years to reach that point of accepting differences. To agree to disagree. It's OK to see things differently even if I am right most of the time. As long as we look perfect on facebook all is good in the hood.
We will celebrate by seeing the Harriet Tubman movie and enjoying dinner at our local dinner spot. The same one my parents frequented throughout their marriage. Two kids. Two dogs. Three houses. 22 years.
Cheers!
"You and Bill could not be any more different," everyone informs me.
"Thanks?"
Everyone has her ying to her yang, the macaroni to her cheese, the glaze to her donut. But when people contrast me to Bill, I spiral until some serious self-reflection. And power laugh. It's clearly not a compliment. The best part is listening to people try to talk themselves through their explanations. I make them suffer. "No! It's just that Bill is so quiet and smart, and you know . . . "
"Yes. I do know. I am loud and ignorant?" Can you see them squirming? I'm so mean.
Admit it. We all critique the unions in our lives. You know the couples:
"What do they do for a living? He's an attorney and she's an acrobat?" Interesting.
"Where are they from? He's from Sauganash and she's from Bridgeport?" No way!
Then there's politics.
"He wears a MAGA hat and she works for Greenpeace?" For real?
All couples have their differences.
The hard part is accepting those differences without killing each other in the process.
Our biggest difference is that Bill is vegan and I'm a rib-eye. We accept this and compromise; I'll eat the lentil and sweet potato burger. Could you pop a wedge of Maytag bleu on that for me? Maybe a chicken thigh on the side? Thanks, hon.
Bill isn't much of an arguer, because he doesn't have strong opinions about matters that aren't important anyways. Unlike me. Avoiding 95th Street on a Saturday is a value I hold dearly. So when Bill takes a right on Leavitt and heads west to 95th Street I re-consider how on God's green earth we ended up together. Just like Bill can't believe I am going to dispose of a jelly mason jar that could be reused as the perfect vessel for iced tea. He remembers his dad mowing the lawn, shirtless, while swigging lemonade out of a 32 ounce mayonnaise jar. Well, now that you put it that way, let me clean that out. Not that I feel like an asshole now or anything.
It takes many years to reach that point of accepting differences. To agree to disagree. It's OK to see things differently even if I am right most of the time. As long as we look perfect on facebook all is good in the hood.
We will celebrate by seeing the Harriet Tubman movie and enjoying dinner at our local dinner spot. The same one my parents frequented throughout their marriage. Two kids. Two dogs. Three houses. 22 years.
Cheers!
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