Ancient History

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Today is our twelfth anniversary.

We aren’t newlyweds any more—at least we wouldn’t qualify to be on the game show. I know how he likes his steaks seasoned, he remembers the last time I locked myself out of the house and burned dinner. We’d win all the fabulous prizes. True newlyweds don’t really need the fabulous prizes, anyway. They are up to their armpits in Bed Bath and Beyond gift cards and sex.

We aren’t quite old-marrieds, though. Our anniversary doesn’t have a coordinating shiny metallic theme or flowery Hallmark cards marking the milestone. Nobody would raise a toast to us on a cruise ship, celebrating our commitment. Nobody asks us for marital advice, in awe of twelve whole years together.

I thought of a term for our stage of marriage: Med-wed. The wedding gown doesn’t fit any more, but I am not thinking about my daughters wearing it any time soon. Oops. I just did.

We’ve been married long enough to have endured sublime joys and inevitable heartbreaks. We’ve been married long enough for a doctor to trust my husband to pack a very icky wound on my body with gauze—and I wasn’t embarrassed. I complained a lot, though.

We’ve had a bunch of kids. One is in middle school and has a locker with a combination I don’t know.

We’ve traveled, but not as much in recent years. We bought a house, which explains the lack of traveling. Got a dog. Had little, medium, and big fights. I do the laundry. He mows the grass. We don’t have any of the newlywed angst regarding chores and duties. Things get done, and that is what is important.

All our Christmas trees look the same, and there are enough pictures of them now that I wouldn’t know what year a particular tree is from without a small child standing in front. Traditions are established, but we are still up for a change if the mood strikes—as long as we don’t stray too far. The groove we are in grows deeper every year, which is good. When there is a hairpin turn, we don’t fly off into the void.

We are med-wed.

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