J: 9/16/02

Work Diary, 9/16/02

Today is my partner's and my thirteenth anniversary. We're not legally
married, since we aren't allowed to be, but what difference does it
make? I'm not sure I'd get married anyway, except for the wedding gifts
(Okay, I'll admit it: I'd really like to sign up for one of those
registries, where you essentially fill out a whole shopping list of
goodies and then people go pick out stuff for you. Not very original,
and the gifts certainly aren't personal, but would I really buy myself
an inflatable guest mattress with its own air pump? Probably
not.).

Thirteen years ago we were rolling around in the mud on a creek bed in
Boulder, Colorado. As it was the late eighties, we both had very fluffy
hair, the type of fluffiness achieved only with gel, mousse, and a
super hot hair dryer. Our jeans were tight, probably cinched at the
ankle, and it's likely at least one of us was wearing polka dots.
Neither of us had finished school.

Much has happened over the years, and much hasn't. For instance, I'd
say we're both better looking (ahem); on the other hand, we've both put
on marital weight. We fight, we get along; we consider each other best
friends, a minor secret too many couples never seem to grasp.

It's a curious time, really. The future isn't as plain as it was when I
was in my twenties. Despite infidelity, the mean specter of alcohol,
the death of countless fish and one very special Bird, we've managed to
weather the storm. We've outlasted the relationships of every single
one of our friends, something I hope I'm stating just as a fact and not
out of smug pride.

So, where have these thirteen years brought us? Witness the following
conversation between my partner and me this morning:

Me: "Good morning! Happy anniversary! I love you!"

My partner: "Do you know where my dry cleaning bag is?"

Ah, marriage.