Sunday is my — I always have to do the subtraction in my head, which is never a great idea — twenty-third anniversary.
In one of my classes today, as we were introducing ourselves, I admitted — after doing math in my head in public, which I usually avoid — to the number of years.
“Wow,” one student breathed. “You must have married young.”
Yeah, I was like twelve.
Except I was actually almost twenty-one.
So, we were young, but we didn’t know we were young. I have studied Elder, amazed that in less than a year he will be the age I was when I married. And I silently threaten to shake the sense back into him if he even considers marriage until whatever age I decide he is adult enough to be adulting.
Yet, twenty-three years after exchanging vows, and my husband and I have survived. And we understand that twenty-three years is really just the start.
I mean, at this point, some prison sentences for murder are shorter than our marriage.
Not to imply that I’ve considered murder as a legitimate option.
Because that would just be wrong.
According to society.
Besides, I kind of like him most of the time.
So, we will live and love and cry and yell and forgive and laugh for another day . . . another month . . . another year.
Life without parole.