Today is the 10th anniversary of my first date with my husband. That is if today were September 27.
September 27 came and went with the normal run around of baseball practice and dinner with in-laws and practicing for spelling tests one last time.
I remembered today. October 9.
I am not one for the schmaltzy romanticism of some relationships, the kind that commemorate the 4-month-2-week-and-6-day anniversaries. For the most part, as long as we actually remember that it is our wedding anniversary, we consider it celebrated. Sometimes it falls on a holiday making it impossible to commemorate alone. Twice we have been lucky enough to escape the chaos of our day-to-day for an anniversary weekend away together.
But September 27--and occasionally even September 20, the day we met--has always been one of those days that lingers in the back of my mind, even if I'm not looking forward to it on the calendar. It's like my grandmother's birthday. Even though the date is no longer permanent on my calendar, it never passes without the momentary remembrance of what that day would have been.
I have mixed feeling about forgetting. It is disheartening to think that we have become so ingrained in our daily shuffle that we have lost all romanticism, all spark of joy that provides a relief from the monotony of our normal. I worry about becoming just roommates, even though understanding the fragile give-and-take required of living with someone is an inevitable part of marriage. I don't know how you know for sure how to make a marriage work for 15, 20, 25 years without having already been married that long. Maybe forgetting the novelty that existed at the beginning is part of forgetting what brought you together in the first place.
But the fact that the normalcy of our lives superseded the remembrance is comforting. I can say honestly that most nights, after we have collapsed into bed and he scoots his leg against mine, I remember to be grateful. I find it difficult to sleep when I don't have the warmth of him next to me. I treasure the simple intimacy of being married, those moments when I know exactly where he is and what he is doing by the simple clink of a dish, the shuffle of a piece of paper, or the softly muffled footstep on the ceiling above me. Maybe forgetting the anniversary of our first date is part of celebrating every day since then.
Maybe all that matters is that, eventually, we remember.
September 27 came and went with the normal run around of baseball practice and dinner with in-laws and practicing for spelling tests one last time.
I remembered today. October 9.
I am not one for the schmaltzy romanticism of some relationships, the kind that commemorate the 4-month-2-week-and-6-day anniversaries. For the most part, as long as we actually remember that it is our wedding anniversary, we consider it celebrated. Sometimes it falls on a holiday making it impossible to commemorate alone. Twice we have been lucky enough to escape the chaos of our day-to-day for an anniversary weekend away together.
But September 27--and occasionally even September 20, the day we met--has always been one of those days that lingers in the back of my mind, even if I'm not looking forward to it on the calendar. It's like my grandmother's birthday. Even though the date is no longer permanent on my calendar, it never passes without the momentary remembrance of what that day would have been.
I have mixed feeling about forgetting. It is disheartening to think that we have become so ingrained in our daily shuffle that we have lost all romanticism, all spark of joy that provides a relief from the monotony of our normal. I worry about becoming just roommates, even though understanding the fragile give-and-take required of living with someone is an inevitable part of marriage. I don't know how you know for sure how to make a marriage work for 15, 20, 25 years without having already been married that long. Maybe forgetting the novelty that existed at the beginning is part of forgetting what brought you together in the first place.
But the fact that the normalcy of our lives superseded the remembrance is comforting. I can say honestly that most nights, after we have collapsed into bed and he scoots his leg against mine, I remember to be grateful. I find it difficult to sleep when I don't have the warmth of him next to me. I treasure the simple intimacy of being married, those moments when I know exactly where he is and what he is doing by the simple clink of a dish, the shuffle of a piece of paper, or the softly muffled footstep on the ceiling above me. Maybe forgetting the anniversary of our first date is part of celebrating every day since then.
Maybe all that matters is that, eventually, we remember.
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