Twenty-five years after saying “I do”.
How does one commit to the rest of your life with one person?
Twenty five years ago as a 25-year-old law school graduate, there was only one certainty in my life. I didn’t want to practice law.
No, three years and tens of thousands of dollars later — the thought of practicing law produced panic attacks. Three to be exact.
Then there was my law school boyfriend who thought it was time for us to marry.
A date was set and invitations ordered.
As my body calmly unwrapped glistening silver paper to reveal china plates and crystal stemware destined to be placed on a shelf and never seen again, my insides spasm-ed about like a brown moth caught in the grimy clutches of a five year old.
Between interviews for jobs at financial institutions and PR firms, working at a mall kiosk selling t-shirts and wondering if I ought to take a fashion design course, I was supposed to get married and officially start my adult life.
Maybe I’ll become a professional napper? Not rapper. Napper as in to nap. I excelled at going comatose during the four most productive hours of a work day.
What if I never found what it is that I was supposed to do in life?
How do I know I’m supposed to marry this guy?
What if a giant tidal wave hit in the middle of the night the week were were vacationing at the beach?
One day leading up to the big day, I had this thought. It came in the form of a question.
Is there any person who you’d rather wake up with and spend the day other than John Miles?
After twisting and turning that poser more ways than a Rubik’s cube, the only answer I could come up with was — no there wasn’t.
We definitely had way too much fun.
When I was with him I forgot that I had no aim in life.
Forgot that after three years of law school, the apex of my employment history was selling BAD ATTITUDE UNIVERSITY sweatshirts in the mall.
And I wept with great relief when I realized all I needed to do was strap a boogie board to my wrist when sleeping a quarter mile from large bodies of water.
I didn’t have to have everything figured out.
It’s funny. Now that we’ve been married 25 years, I realize that some of the reasons my husband is so perfect for me had never occurred to me when we said “I do”.
My husband lets me be messy, creative, goofy, babble-at-the-mouth-about-nothing me. If I had married someone who demanded the house not look like a crack house on COPS, that meals be served at a certain time and temperature or that I look a certain way (as in presentable), he would have crushed my spirit as a nine year old takes glee from pouring salt onto a garden slug.
He doesn’t think my creative endeavors silly. Not particularly profitable, yes — but silly, no.
And there’s still no one I’d rather wake up and spend the day with but my John.
Yes, 25 years after saying “I do” — I’m most thankful that I did.
