It was hot and muggy the day I got married. The earth was buried in wisps of hot cloud, and alligator drops landed on our shoulders as we stood at the altar. My hair was terribly frizzy, with no hope that it would ever be otherwise. But it was a beautiful event, a beautiful day, and we looked young and happy in the pictures as was proper. I looked at my father, face buried in his handkerchief, felt the warm drops on my shoulders, and thought that both my fathers were crying – the mortal and the immortal. Tears pooled in my eyes, too. I let them spill over and thought to myself, damn it, I can’t believe I lost the bet on who would cry first.
It is a scant six days from my ten year anniversary, and the same sort of rain is pouring from the sky right now. My hair is as frizzy as it was on that day, but everything else has changed immeasurably. We are not living in an apartment where the alley is sprayed with graffiti every night where our things were continually stolen. We both have jobs. There are two cars in our garage.
We’re going away, the 19th-21st. It’s not the honeymoon I never got like I hoped it would be. Student loans and part-time employment saw to that. But it will be nice, and romantic. Brian is not allowed to know where we’re going until we get there, so I won’t tell the internet either. The clues he has are that it’s a bit of a drive, it’s still in California, and it is sort of like camping, but really not like camping at all. Tantalizing, isn’t it? I have a wide grin on my face, and my eyes are sparkling at your frustration. This is half the fun.
Ten feels a lot like three, and a lot like seven, and a lot like all the other years in between. We always wake up underneath our white down comforter, look at each other, and say “can you believe it?” This year, I really can’t.