Nine years ago today. Seems odd to think of it because it seems like last week. Waking up early, both of us rushing around all morning to get the place decorated, those huge medieval looking banners my mom thought would look tacky really worked and pulled that room together. Your dad sent me a bunch of red carnations that morning because he couldn’t be there, perfect for our table. Helping Harvey set up the hupah, who knew plywood and PVC pipe would be so vexing for a structural engineer? We did make that place look pretty festive, didn’t we? I was so insistant that it would start on time, but my folks wandering around in a daze pretty much nixed that idea. I don’t even blame you for starting to smoke again that day. It was pretty stressful. I was fuming in the back, almost yelling “can we start this thing now?!” Finally the ceremony started, and only twenty minutes late. Only stepped on my dress once and avoiding klutzing out and falling on my face. The rabbi forgot the wine so we had to fake it. Looking back at the tape, I’d say we did a pretty good job of it. I alternated in feeling like I was beaming to holding back tears for those few minutes. You smashed the glass with your foot and the ceremony was finished. You were now part of the family and my sister made you know your place by opening the doors to the food while we were still thanking people in the recpetion line. By the time we got to the food, all the good stuff was gone. Oh well, we can eat lox anytime. Grabbing the mall Santa to dance with us sufficiently mortified my mom. That was slightly evil but so fun at the same time. Most of all, I still remember how happy I was, dancing with your arms around me for the first time as your wife. We had so much liquor there, but I didn’t need much of it because my joy was intoxicating enough.
Nine years ago today, and two kids later, I’d marry you again in a heartbeat. You’re my best friend, the one person I never get weary of spending time with, the one who gives me the oh-so-needed kick in the butt on occasion. You’re still my petite flower former jarhead, the cranky sourpuss who makes me giggle when you swear at other drivers on the road, the appallingly bad dresser who’s still very charming. I love you, Mac. Happy Anniversary and pass the remote, sugarlips.
But, seriously, a good single malt should never be consumed in a quantity which would degrade a man’s husbandly duties.