September 12th, 1988 was a Monday. It was also the day that my wife and I started dating for the first time.
Thing is, I can’t remember for the life of me how it happened. I could have asked her, sent smoke signals, or it could have been a note with a check box on it.
Any which way it happened, I do remember that date and chick’s dig when dudes remember dates and anniversaries (but not so much being called chicks). That dating relationship only lasted a month-and-a-half and when we broke up it was an epically stupid reason. Both of us were having a bad day about nothing relating to the other, she asked if I was ok, I asked if she was ok and five minutes later we weren’t together anymore.
Two years later, after a year of dating, I chose it as our wedding date after I proposed to her on a phone located on a pier in Toulon, France on July 30th. It seemed symbolic, I liked it. She… well, she had other issues with it, like “people don’t get married on Wednesday’s” (a fact I remind her of every time someone gets married on a Wednesday).
Every year, we celebrate this day. It’s nothing fancy, nothing blown out. That’s not us. It probably should be, but we just aren’t those people. Seriously, for our 20th anniversary, we went to CiCi’s and hung out with a group of kids from the youth group we worked with. I don’t know if that speaks to us as great people or just really lame.
Whatever, it works for us.
That right there, though, that’s the part I think people completely forget.
Finding what works.
But today, we are going out to dinner and I intend to celebrate our anniversary because come Tuesday, the actual day, she is going to be working late and I have class.
But again, that works for us.
Probably because we make it.
Yeah, that’s it.