Coming Home
Unless you're a celestial object or a redwood tree, I think we can all agree that 20 years is a chunk of time. Time enough to stretch your legs and take care of business and do some living. Spend 20 years in prison or in the Army, say, and you've been there awhile.
My wife and I marked our 20th wedding anniversary on July 30. It was a day that started off shaky, due to some questionable behavior on my part, and ended up being glorious, which is pretty much the best you can hope for with a day. Or a marriage, for that matter.
We spent a lot of it in a jacuzzi in our hotel room, letting the water beat the tension out and watching the sun set over the Sound through a big window next to the tub, feeling lucky and relaxed and hoping nobody on the ferries had brought binoculars.
Of all the legal wrangling we do in this country, I think maybe only getting a fishing license is easier than marriage. Do a little dance, give a little blood, get down tonight. You can be married by a justice of the peace or an Elvis impersonator, a Real Live Preacher or someone with a divinity degree from a cereal box.
Well, you can't if you're gay, at least not yet, but that's another discussion.
I think the ease with which we marry (the legal stuff; I'm not talking about flowers and caterers and the band) is a cosmic joke, one of God's little jests, like finding the edges of a jigsaw puzzle right off the bat. It looks so simple in the beginning, but there are pieces you think you're never going to come across and the rest of it takes a lot of work.
There's no equity here, no matter what you say or plan. Someone always has to clean the toilet, and that someone will always resent it. There are disagreements over spending money and what color to paint the walls and what to watch and when to feed the kids.
I have no wisdom on the subject of making a marriage work. I'm surprised anyone does it, actually, but somehow Julie and I have, at least for a couple of decades.
We were singing for our suppers when we met, college students serving up steak and deep fried ice cream, then taking our turn at the mike. We serenaded each other, and everybody knew it. She'd sing "I Don't Know How To Love Him" while I stood at the back of the restaurant and watched, and I'd sing "I've Grown Accustomed To Her Face." It was disgusting. The other waiters would roll their eyes. Get a room, you guys.
She took our daughter to Texas last week, and as I've told several people, the lack of estrogen in the environment makes for a calmer household, but a less interesting one. A boy and a dog are nice but not enough, not for me.
Katharine Hepburn said men and women were just too different to live together, and the thought has crossed my mind more than once, but here we are. I can't explain it. Maybe she finally figured out how to love me. Maybe it's because I occasionally clean the toilet.
All I know is, my wife has been gone eight days, and knowing she comes home tomorrow has me pretty jazzed. I've grown accustomed to the trace of something in the air, and I've missed it.
7:46:15 AM 
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