"Nothing But Big Old Hearts Dancing in Our Eyes
Last night around 9:30, at the end of a trying day after a basically sleepless night, I looked at Terri (my bride, for you new friends) and said, “Hey, I think tomorrow is our anniversary. You didn’t do anything did you, ‘cause I got nothing.”
(Hint: this blog post is pretty much my anniversary present to her, so y’all voyeuristic freaks keep reading If you must—whatever butters your biscuit)
I knew she hadn’t, we’ve been dealing with a sick four-year-old past couple of days, but I figured I’d check just to be sure. “Nope, haven’t done a thing,” she replied.
“You good?” I asked.
“I’m good, she replied. “You?”
“Yep.”
That’s what thirty-one years’ll get you. And don’t get me wrong, it suits the two of us just fine. A decade or so back, we decided we’d save money and buy a generic anniversary card, not sign it, and just keep giving it back and forth to each other rather than waste money on cards every year. That lasted a couple years. Neither one of us has a clue where the card is now.
Ours is a “meet-cute” story for the ages: I got her at an auction. She wanted nothing to do with me, but I kept increasing my bid until she gave up and went out with me. I fell in love with her on our second date—a Sunday afternoon shooting pool at some place in Matthews that has since closed. It was a whirlwind romance—we were married in less than a year.
Most people thought we’d never last. A couple folks thought we only got married because Terri was pregnant (she wasn’t). Everybody then, now, and all along the way who knows us thinks we’re weird, not quite right in the head, ill-tempered, bad-mannered and in general, unfit for society. I suppose they’re right. Admittedly, I’m impossible to live with on my good days, unbearable on the bad ones. Terri’s the same and then some. A couple years in, I announced I was quitting my job to go back to school full-time. She flinched, but hung in there. Every time I take Terri camping, it rains. Every. Time. She says I keep the house freezing (I do), I say she can’t hear (she can’t). She rides bitch on the scooter like a pro—I can’t even tell she’s back there, and she makes the best egg salad and French toast in the world, bar none. We fight like Neanderthals but always over something stupid that we laugh about (sometimes days, or weeks) later. I don’t know, on paper, it looks like all those folks who didn’t think we’d make it should’ve been right, but, well…here we are, thirty-one years later.
Yeah, most people probably still think we’re like the verses of the John Prine/Iris Dement song, “In Spite of Ourselves,” and maybe they’re right. We think we’re more like the chorus, though:
In spite of ourselves / We'll end up a'sittin' on a rainbow
Against all odds / Honey, we're the big door prize
We're gonna spite our noses / Right off of our faces
There won't be nothin' but big old hearts / Dancin' in our eyes.
We figure we’ll stick it out, see how things go. If nothing else, we both like proving all those folks wrong!