“Men don’t understand marriage. Women do. We don’t. After many years, when they finally begin to grasp and understand the concept of marriage, they die.” ~ paraphrasing a Bill Cosby routine I once saw
There’s an accomplishment many aim for in the game that vexes and allures me. In golf it is known as Shooting your age. I sincerely doubt I’ll ever fulfill that — unless you count doing this on a nine-hole Par 3 course. Wouldn’t be much of an achievement, by the way. I can ruin a round without blinking an eye, thank you very much. Yet, on this day (you’ll have to ask my wife her opinion on this subject) I’ve attained something I think more of a worthy feat. Twenty-five years ago, on February 25th, at this appointed hour in St. Bernadette Catholic Church, I married well. Extremely.
To my best friend, in fact.
Something my mother, God bless your heart, never did. Of that I can hardly complain, as I wouldn’t be here to celebrate twenty-five years wedded to the love of my life. Being a spouse to one, father of two, for that matter. Seems as a dream that something like this, a quarter of a century with her, has flowed over the dam. Seemingly overnight. I still remember this day, even though it’s been that long ago. The ceremonial mass my bride insisted upon, an elongated one that had us on our knees for God knows (oh, I’m going to hear it for that one) how long. And I’d do it all over again.
Funny what you call to mind. My bride noticing her soon-to-be in-law, my brother and our Best Man, appraising with a jeweler’s eye the wedding rings she’d picked out before handing them over to the priest for that segment of the nuptials, for one. Of course, this would be the same guy, at her parent’s backyard reception a couple of hours later, who’d deliver the most unexpected, witty, and touching wedding toast she and I could ever ask for. No mixed blessings in this union I’d eventually learn. Maybe disguised, unanticipated for sure, but always in keeping with the loving soul that anchors this marriage.
Her, not me.
So says the husband of said woman married he twenty-five years ago today. I want at least that amount (and more) in her light, her warmth. I don’t know if I’ll be lucky enough this time to achieve it. All I know is I’m so thankful to have reached this number with her at my side — which is code for I’m the luckiest man to be at her’s. I, indeed, married above my station with this lovely lady. But I pride myself in knowing I was smart enough to realize that two and half decades ago. Not waste the glorious opportunity that stood in front of me on that bright, surprisingly warm February day without a cloud in the sky, either.
Happy 25, my love.
Since She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed insisted I not post a picture of us on this blog, I searched high and low to find one where we cannot be recognized*.