Hard Times are Relative

My husband and I just celebrated an anniversary. It was the porcelain anniversary, to be exact. See, back in the day, there was a chart, surely created by the Hallmark folks or some etiquette guru, that told you what gift you should give for each year, 1-60. I know this because my grandmother worked at a pharmacy, the kind that stopped just short of having a soda fountain. Smith’s Pharmacy, in Seagoville, did have a pretty cool break area where I would be sent to drink a Dr Pepper in silence, and with perfect posture, so that I stood a chance at sweet talking Mr. Smith into giving me a treasure, like an empty perfume tester bottle or the defunct display case for the Timex watches. That was my take on the situation. I think my break area banishment had more to do with my mom needing to color match the perfect Max Factor pancake makeup shade or choose the right 70’s blue eyeshadow in peace. Soon, however, I would tire of being asked by elderly coffee drinkers to recite TV commercials (every kid has a talent, ok) and inevitably slither along the back wall of the gift section to a tiny room behind the jewelry counter. There, Miss Ozella, the family matriarch, would surely be wrapping gifts. Watching her dexterity and the crispness of the lines she made from the glossy pastel paper was mesmerizing. Don’t even get me started on the handmade bows. “Do you know what I’m wrapping, Dina?” “No ma’am.” “Well, it’s an anniversary gift. It’s the wood anniversary gift.” She would point to a chart on the wall. Every year was listed alongside the corresponding gift and the meaning. I never understood. Were these the gifts the couple should be giving to each other? Or, were we all destined to keep a running list of everyone we knew who was married and give the appropriate annual bestowal? I still don’t know the answer. I just knew that room was magical, stacked counter to ceiling with a rainbow of paper rolls and a cornucopia of ribbons just waiting for Miss Ozella to spiral them with one sharp scissor blade. I still get nostalgic when I smell Scotch tape. But, back to anniversaries.

Anytime I see young folks getting married, I say a little prayer. I was that person once, too, off to conquer the world with a mental image of just how things would be. We’ll live in a blue house – no, maybe a white house with a red door. We’ll have a picket fence, and a son first, then a daughter. We’ll get a minivan (80s Dina’s head is weird). We’ll have a Persian cat, charcoal gray, and a Cocker Spaniel named Bowie. Did you ever play MASH as a kid? Remember the paper origami game where you inserted thumbs and forefingers into the corners and went back and forth? Pick a number between 1-10 for your house. Whish, whop, whish, whop…you’re going to marry Robby Benson and live in a mansion with 2 kids. Or, maybe you’ll marry Johnny down the street, who eats his boogers, and live in a shack with your 11 children. MASH is funny that way. So is life. I think, when you’re young and naïve, the biggest misconception is that everything is going to go your way. You see the future as a life perfectly divided. Chores? We’ll split them. Parenting? We’ll each do our equal parts. Money? How can that ever be an issue when we think exactly alike? As someone who is inching toward that double decade coupling mark, I promise you that the incredibly detailed picture you’re keeping in your head will not serve you well. After all, there is no such thing as 50/50 in a relationship. Just take my last 18 years as an example.

My husband and I were only married for 5 years when my 16-year-old daughter left us forever. Let me tell you, they’d already been 5 hard years, as we were both driving 3 hour commutes every day, struggling with bills, and jumping through weekend hoops to be where we needed to be, with 4 kids doing all sorts of activities. Note: hard does not mean bad. It just means, well, hard. Understandably, I buckled under the weight of that tragedy, just as I buckled a little more over my cancer diagnosis later that year. There was no 50/50 in 2008. He gave 200% and I sucked 100% of his life’s blood out of him. I was his giant, human leech, consuming all of our money, all of our joy, and every ounce of our normalcy. Since then, we’ve had some 50/50 years. Occasionally, I’ve even been the top giver. I think that’s all I wanted to say. There is no fair in life. So, when you’re young and in love and planning your forever with someone, don’t make a mental note of how you want your front door to look. Instead, ask yourself, if you ever need to wrap your useless body around this person, can they support you in that moment? Are you willing to do the same? Hard times are relative. Like my husband says, you won’t remember the good times. You’ll remember the time you failed the worst and laughed about it until you couldn’t breathe anymore. That’s where the magic happens. Happy Anniversary, honey. With all my love, your favorite leech.