I often forget the actual date we got married but he never does. I don’t know why I forget; in my first marriage I always remembered. But maybe that is why. First time around marriage was hard and every new anniversary seemed like an accomplishment and a ‘stick it up ya’ to those people who said it would never last. I probably stayed way too long just because I didn’t want to face up to the reality of the situation. Every year that ticked over was the equivalent of pinning another medal and a certificate award on the constructed edifice of marriage that we normalised; it justified me. and reinforced my decisions.
Pretty crappy way to behave, in retrospect, and S, if you are reading this (and I know you will be at some point), then I am sorry. I should have realised how dysfunctional we were as a couple and it might have been a lot easier on us both if I’d stopped trying to make it work so many years earlier.
This time around, I know the actual day we got married but ask me randomly and I won’t be able to come up with a date. This is a much healthier relationship in every way and arbitrary time markings seem to have no significance at all. I am just grateful for every day I get to wake up next to him.
Two years? That’s wood, I think, or maybe china. Either way, there isn’t present giving. Or even a celebration as we have a lot of things on this weekend. But next week I am slinging my pack on my back and walking off for another four days down the Bibbulumun Track and he will meet me in a little country town and we will stay in a chalet in the woods. We’ll drink champagne and have dinner here and hold each other’s hands under the tablecloth and pretend it is our actual anniversary that day.
It doesn’t seem to matter what day we mark it because it feels like every day we celebrate it.