Life Without Parole

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.

 

 

 

 

 

Love and Marriage

The other day, I commented to my husband that many people might avoid saying how old they were but everyone was always proud of how long they had been married.

And the wise one responded, “Well, being married for thirty years feels like living through sixty.”

Despite making such a comment straight to my face, he lives on.

But even more slowly than before.

Learn As You Go

The other day, my husband and I had to trade trucks, which means…

He had to stop at the first gas station he saw to avoid being stranded along the road.

And I was goosed by some deer antlers.

And those, folks, are the dirty, little life secrets they don’t share in pre-marital counseling. Some stuff, I guess, you just gotta learn as you go.