My Anniversary (sort of)
Nineteen years ago today, my husband kissed me for the first time. *blushes* And although Thursday is our fifteen-year wedding anniversary, in many ways, I still view today as our true anniversary. We've lived together for these past nineteen years, and a marriage certificate never changed our level of commitment, one way or another.
It seems I cannot reminisce lately without the words demanding to be recorded. Below the cut is the tiny story of our first kiss.
We met in college, in English 101. He sat beside me: six-plus feet of bronzed, sculpted muscles and too-long hair bleached blond by the Arizona sun. I had no interest in athletic men. I scoffed at his friend from high school-Barry, the volleyball player-who sat in front of him and asked how many pounds he could bench press now. Such physical pursuits were beneath my notice. I far preferred my books to his biceps, convinced anything that took time away from studying was pointless. My opinion of him was easily summed up in two words: stupid jock.
“Nice shoes,” was the first thing he ever said to me.
I can’t even remember what the shoes looked like now. Black pumps would be a good guess. I was a weird kid and never favored the torn jeans and ratty shirts of my grunge-loving compatriots. Starting college at sixteen had been an intimidating experience, and even though I’d had a year of it under my belt by that point, I still donned my professional, “grown-up” clothes like armor.
I mumbled my thanks and tried to determine if he was making fun of me.
When he voted for my story, I decided he’d been serious about the shoes. Our teacher had assigned us an essay to write-the best submissions would be read aloud and the class would select a winner. I was so proud when my story had been selected. His story had been chosen, as well. But he voted for mine and nudged Barry to do the same. I won. And my opinion of him began to shift.
It was another story that changed it entirely. He showed up for class one day, and a tattered copy of Stephen King’s “The Talisman” sat atop his duffel bag. I loved that book. I’d read it twice.
So had he.
We started out talking about that book, and we just never stopped.
I had a free period after English class, and he made a habit of walking with me to the library. We’d grab a bagel and sit in the building’s open-air atrium, beneath towering fig trees, and grow hoarse from sharing tales of our past. That little square had to have existed in some otherworldly realm, where hours passed as seconds and preconceived notions shattered easier than the glass walls reflecting our images back at us.
My initial impression of California-muscle-moron couldn’t have been further from the truth. A quiet farm boy from Idaho hid inside the jock exterior. The hours spent lifting weights were as much to hone a fine physique as to escape an undesirable home life.
We came from vastly different backgrounds, but we shared more than I had thought possible. The youngest children of broken homes, we’d both moved so frequently we had mastered the art of packing boxes by ten. The reluctance to make new friends had been a survival skill, yet neither of us seemed willing to raise our shields now. A levee had been breached, and it would never be rebuilt.
I will always remember the day of our first kiss. We had driven to Estrella Mountain Park, where weathered old mesquite trees stretched their low branches across the desert, all feathery leaves that skimmed the scorched ground and brushed the sand. He leaned against the smooth wood where branch met trunk, fingers threaded behind his head. His loose tee shirt fluttered in the breeze and revealed scars that lead to more stories, more revelations of a past best left behind. At some point, we abandoned tales of what had been and dared to imagine what could be.
Warm November sun dappled our heads, heated our skin, and lingered even as he drove me home. We stood in the driveway, and he told me he wasn’t interested in merely dating: he wanted something that could defy the odds, defy our history, and last forever. He wrote his phone number on the back of a gas station receipt, and then he kissed me. He tasted of Big Red gum and Clearly Canadian flavored water-black cherry, if I recall correctly. I remember little of his technique or style. The Earth didn’t move and the Heavens didn’t open in song. I probably wouldn’t have noticed even if they had-I was a very sheltered seventeen-year old, and this was my first kiss. Ever. I was far more concerned with where to put my nose and when, or even if, I should open my mouth. I dropped the slip of paper with his phone number and frantically searched for it after he’d left. It’s in a keepsake box now.
It’s hard to believe nineteen years have passed since that day. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how many ways I can mark the passage of time. We’ve changed states, changed houses, and changed jobs. Our minds have expanded along with our waistlines. Friends have come and gone. We’ve lost people we loved, and we have created new life.
It hasn’t all been wonderful. There were times when I was so unhappy I contemplated unforgivable things. And I know he never imagined how low the lows could be. We have struggled over finances and fought over every topic imaginable. Yet it has been the little things that have somehow seen us through-a thousand shared jokes no one else would understand, countless small triumphs against an ocean of adversity. Our love has shifted along with the tides. The first blush has definitely faded, but something strong has appeared in its stead. Something safe and sturdy, with the kind of roots we had once only dreamed of.
On days like this, though, it is fun to remember its origins.
I close my eyes, and I can still smell the sun-baked desert, the sharp notes of creosote over the dense layers of mesquite. I can hear the succulent branches of the palo verde trees stirred by the dusty breeze. I taste Big Red gum and feel his denim jacket beneath my fingers. I am seventeen again. And anything is possible.
*sighs* Ah, l'amour!
I hope everyone is well. Emi and I were down all weekend with a stomach flu-she is still home sick from school today. Poor tyke.
It seems I cannot reminisce lately without the words demanding to be recorded. Below the cut is the tiny story of our first kiss.
We met in college, in English 101. He sat beside me: six-plus feet of bronzed, sculpted muscles and too-long hair bleached blond by the Arizona sun. I had no interest in athletic men. I scoffed at his friend from high school-Barry, the volleyball player-who sat in front of him and asked how many pounds he could bench press now. Such physical pursuits were beneath my notice. I far preferred my books to his biceps, convinced anything that took time away from studying was pointless. My opinion of him was easily summed up in two words: stupid jock.
“Nice shoes,” was the first thing he ever said to me.
I can’t even remember what the shoes looked like now. Black pumps would be a good guess. I was a weird kid and never favored the torn jeans and ratty shirts of my grunge-loving compatriots. Starting college at sixteen had been an intimidating experience, and even though I’d had a year of it under my belt by that point, I still donned my professional, “grown-up” clothes like armor.
I mumbled my thanks and tried to determine if he was making fun of me.
When he voted for my story, I decided he’d been serious about the shoes. Our teacher had assigned us an essay to write-the best submissions would be read aloud and the class would select a winner. I was so proud when my story had been selected. His story had been chosen, as well. But he voted for mine and nudged Barry to do the same. I won. And my opinion of him began to shift.
It was another story that changed it entirely. He showed up for class one day, and a tattered copy of Stephen King’s “The Talisman” sat atop his duffel bag. I loved that book. I’d read it twice.
So had he.
We started out talking about that book, and we just never stopped.
I had a free period after English class, and he made a habit of walking with me to the library. We’d grab a bagel and sit in the building’s open-air atrium, beneath towering fig trees, and grow hoarse from sharing tales of our past. That little square had to have existed in some otherworldly realm, where hours passed as seconds and preconceived notions shattered easier than the glass walls reflecting our images back at us.
My initial impression of California-muscle-moron couldn’t have been further from the truth. A quiet farm boy from Idaho hid inside the jock exterior. The hours spent lifting weights were as much to hone a fine physique as to escape an undesirable home life.
We came from vastly different backgrounds, but we shared more than I had thought possible. The youngest children of broken homes, we’d both moved so frequently we had mastered the art of packing boxes by ten. The reluctance to make new friends had been a survival skill, yet neither of us seemed willing to raise our shields now. A levee had been breached, and it would never be rebuilt.
I will always remember the day of our first kiss. We had driven to Estrella Mountain Park, where weathered old mesquite trees stretched their low branches across the desert, all feathery leaves that skimmed the scorched ground and brushed the sand. He leaned against the smooth wood where branch met trunk, fingers threaded behind his head. His loose tee shirt fluttered in the breeze and revealed scars that lead to more stories, more revelations of a past best left behind. At some point, we abandoned tales of what had been and dared to imagine what could be.
Warm November sun dappled our heads, heated our skin, and lingered even as he drove me home. We stood in the driveway, and he told me he wasn’t interested in merely dating: he wanted something that could defy the odds, defy our history, and last forever. He wrote his phone number on the back of a gas station receipt, and then he kissed me. He tasted of Big Red gum and Clearly Canadian flavored water-black cherry, if I recall correctly. I remember little of his technique or style. The Earth didn’t move and the Heavens didn’t open in song. I probably wouldn’t have noticed even if they had-I was a very sheltered seventeen-year old, and this was my first kiss. Ever. I was far more concerned with where to put my nose and when, or even if, I should open my mouth. I dropped the slip of paper with his phone number and frantically searched for it after he’d left. It’s in a keepsake box now.
It’s hard to believe nineteen years have passed since that day. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how many ways I can mark the passage of time. We’ve changed states, changed houses, and changed jobs. Our minds have expanded along with our waistlines. Friends have come and gone. We’ve lost people we loved, and we have created new life.
It hasn’t all been wonderful. There were times when I was so unhappy I contemplated unforgivable things. And I know he never imagined how low the lows could be. We have struggled over finances and fought over every topic imaginable. Yet it has been the little things that have somehow seen us through-a thousand shared jokes no one else would understand, countless small triumphs against an ocean of adversity. Our love has shifted along with the tides. The first blush has definitely faded, but something strong has appeared in its stead. Something safe and sturdy, with the kind of roots we had once only dreamed of.
On days like this, though, it is fun to remember its origins.
I close my eyes, and I can still smell the sun-baked desert, the sharp notes of creosote over the dense layers of mesquite. I can hear the succulent branches of the palo verde trees stirred by the dusty breeze. I taste Big Red gum and feel his denim jacket beneath my fingers. I am seventeen again. And anything is possible.
*sighs* Ah, l'amour!
I hope everyone is well. Emi and I were down all weekend with a stomach flu-she is still home sick from school today. Poor tyke.