I’m a wife.
I never thought I’d say those words again.
I’ve gone from checking “Single,” or “divorced” (if I’m feeling honest—I mean, seriously, who cares?), on doctor’s forms, to selecting “married.”
My CPA called today and asked: You’ll be filing married this year, right?
Yikes. I will, won’t I? How will that change things for us?
I’ve gone from introducing Alex as my friend, to my boyfriend, to my fiancé, to my husband. It rolls comfortably off the tongue and still shocks me even as I say it.
Seester and I used to say: “What is husband doing?” We knew that the man referred to belonged to her. But on our trip there last month (see Burt blog), we both tripped up saying that because, who were we talking about?
I wear wedding rings. A lovely diamond and a beautiful band. They look like they were worn on a hand in the 1800s—I love antique jewelry and what Alex picked out is perfect for me.
But for those who’ve known me, I frequently shook my head as women talked about diamonds and said: Eh, not really my thing.
Yes, they are all (you know who you are) laughing at my bling.
We got married last month at the magistrate’s office. It was, in a word: fun. The magistrate was a trip; Alex’s sister and her husband—always full of humor—were able to be there; and we had a wedding crasher. Friend Patty, spoken of fondly in these blogs, crashed. I couldn’t have been happier and given the usual state of insanity among our friends, I was surprised she was the only one.
As we waited among the casual ne’er do wells (traffic infractions and the such), we also saw orange jump-suited, shackled hands and feet, worse offenders traipse in and out. And there we were, dressed in our Sunday best. And Patty…she even wore a dress.
Blaise Laratonda called us in with the utmost seriousness and I thought, uh, oh, this is going to be bad. What a showman because once the door was closed behind us, he let the serious mask off and set about putting us at ease and getting to know us and turning what could have been a Vegas-blink-of-an-eye event, into one that still lingers in my mind.
Alex, my poor Alex in his suit & tie, long sleeved shirt, was of course, melting. The a/c was turned down, the ceremony began, our guests took pictures and doled out rings and laughed when we laughed and clapped when he kissed the bride. Me, that is.
I was a bride and happy to be so.
Am still happy to be so and fully expect it to be that way for the remainder of my life.
What does a happy marriage take these days?
It’s bound to be different for everyone of us as couples form their own unique bonds and blend their personalities. Our relationship is based on humor. Lots and lots—let me say it again—lots and lots of humor. He “gets” me and knows when to take me seriously (hardly ever) and when to laugh at whatever I’m doing (even when it’s cooking by smoke detector). I get him, too. His moods, his rants, his subtle humor that I have to pay attention to or miss.
He slays me. Alex is not a morning person, but from the moment he wakes up until he tucks me in at night, he’s making me laugh. I floor him. I know I got him really good with whatever I did/said, when he goes into silent laugh mode—body jiggling in laughter, but quietly.
To share humor with anyone—to truly, deeply share humor—you have to have a bond of trust between you. I think that’s why the Griffith family events are predominately full of belly laughs, chuckling, and snorts and cackles. We love each other without much boundary or expectation. Acceptance, I guess is the word.
Which leads back to Alex. Will he ever wash the dishes and not involve the countertop, floor and his clothes? Nope. Accepted.
Will I ever actually like to watch “Gears” on a Saturday morning while we sip coffee? Not so much. Accepted.
Happiness also means support.
We are different people. Alex is practical, feet are on the ground, engineer’s brain always analyzing and assessing before acting. I’m the writer and my brain is a wild mix of memories, new ideas and jumping into everything feet first and then saying: dang the water is cold! We support these differences like we support each other’s beliefs and mores.
We are, in our fifties, what we are. Like good wine, I hope we age and become more robustly ourselves over time. But will we change? Unlikely. By now, we are what we are and speaking for myself, I’m happy with both of us.
I’m a wife.
I have a moniker I didn’t think I’d ever have. When Alex introduces me these days, I burst with happiness when he says, This is my wife.
Who’d have ever thought we’d come to this point from a friendship started over a decade ago?
Ain’t life grand?