My Darling B and I were married twenty-five years ago in the Eisenhower Chapel on Lowry Air Force Base.
The reception was in our dining room.
She sure made that wedding dress look good!
And then she shoved cake up my nose.
So I had to return the favor, just to make it official.
I love you, B!
It’s our anniversary, My Darling B reminded me when she kissed me good morning today, but when she tried to figure out how long it’s been, she found it was way too early in the day for her to do the math in her head, and had to go with her gut feeling.
“It feels like we’ve been married forever,” she said, “but in a good way.”
Turns out it’s been 23 years. I had to count it on my fingers, even though I’ve had two cups of coffee and plenty of time to wake up.
My Darling B lucked out big time last night: she didn’t have to prepare a special dinner for our anniversary. Thursday night is guy night, so I put my awesomely manly talents to good use, fired up my trusty Weber grill, and burned some burgers for our celebratory meal. We had some sweet corn in the fridge, too, so I steamed that and served it as a side for bonus points.
Twenty-two years of wedded bliss. Here’s to twenty-two more. (I wonder when people stop saying that, not because they’re sick of it or marriage, but simply because it no longer seems possible. I mean, when we’ve been married fifty years I probably won’t be saying, “Here’s to fifty more,” because unless I get just about every organ replaced and they fit me with robotic legs, I doubt very much I’ll still be tottering around when I’m one-hundred thirty years old. Just sayin’.)