Metaphors and Marriages

Where does the time go? Really, I’d like to know. It seems like just yesterday I went to bed with a reasonably smooth forehead, but now it looks more like a wrinkled pillowcase that was left out in the sun, then run over a couple of times by a 400 horsepower dirt bike.
The last time I truly felt the almighty, vengeful, blood-sucking metaphysical phenomenon called the passage of time was on my last wedding anniversary a few weeks ago. Normally, we try to defy the odds by doing something fun like making a short trip out of town so we can pretend we never had kids, or jobs, or responsibilities in the first place. It’s what all the experts tell you to do anyways. It’s great, until the margarita buzz wears off and/or you get the room service bill or a call from home from Grandma saying one of the kids is in a pneumonia tent in the pediatric ward.
All I know is that era seems long gone. The last time my husband and I got the heck out of Dodge was in 2007 when we took a short anniversary vacation in Charleston, lounging at a really cool rooftop pool. Well, I’m not sure if it was a pool or a fountain, but it didn’t really matter because my husband swam in it anyway. I must admit that I was relieved no one threw quarters at him. But alas, those were the salad days. You know, back when the Dow was over 1200 and most people still thought of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac as their crazy aunt and uncle a few counties over that they’ve heard odd stories about but, thankfully, had never met.
Nowadays, at our house at least, a romantic evening spent celebrating our wedding anniversary means eating leftover meatloaf and watching Dateline while the kids spray each other in the front yard with the garden hose.
“Can you believe it’s been fourteen years since we went eyes closed, knees shaking, straight to the altar and into the ‘until death do us part’ thing?” I ask my husband, as I set the Heinz ketchup, a glass of fat free milk, and a roll of Bounty down on the coffee table.
“Geez, is that all?” he replies sweetly in between bites, though I can tell he’s trying real hard not to roll his eyes. Time sure flies when you’re having fun!”
“No need to lay it on too thick, Casanova,” I tell him before pouring more milk into his glass. “I already said you could hold on to the remote control.”
Seriously y’all. It feels like yesterday that we were thawing out the leftover top tier of frosted butter cream, happy that we’d made it through the first year and weren’t hurling it back and forth at each other across the kitchen table.
It just seems surreal that somewhere in between we moved six times, inhabited four states, started raising two children & multiple pets, changed careers, shared a bathroom, bed, burned dinner, paid countless bills, and messed up at least a hundred and fifteen loads of laundry without killing one another.
I don’t know how we did it exactly except that I keep going back to the engraving I unwittingly inscribed on my husband’s wedding band the day we married. It reads, “through each season” and I have to admit I had no idea how a propos it would turn out to be at the time . . . all the ups and downs, the good times, the disappointments, the storms we’ve weathered, the good waves we’ve managed to catch.
I’m actually quite proud of us now that I think about it. So I couldn’t be more proud of my own parents who will celebrate their fortieth this summer. That’s 40 falls, 40 winters, 40 springs, 40 summers they’re still together, still sticking it out, still standing the test of time.
I asked my mom not too long ago what she thought the secret to a successful marriage was all about. Tolerance, she told me, was the biggie. Marriage requires an ego check and you have to realize sometimes you’re going to come in second. This was especially true for my mom, knowing my dad’s patients would win out most of the time, but that’s what she loves about him: his compassion, even though it meant we had Thanksgivings in hospital cafeterias, Christmases around the first of the New Year, and Saturdays waiting in ER parking lots. My mom never complained. She just made sure we were together.
When asked the same question, Dad says his secret to a long, happy marriage is a simple one. He just married the classiest, smartest women he’d ever met.
Speaking of figuring out what makes a marriage stick, it really puts the whole "to have and to hold" thing in a new context. So yes, here it comes . . . but who would have thought making my husband’s favorite meatloaf could be considered a metaphor for marriage? Not only do you have to get your hands right into the mix of it, but it also requires a certain consistency and a whole lot of extra stuff just to hold it together. And, after all the trouble, it really doesn’t look like anything particularly fancy on the surface – it’s more of a staple like toilet paper and low fat milk. Only you never seem to tire of it because it reminds you of being home and feeling safe. Plus, when you don’t know what else to do, it always comes through in a pinch. So here’s to fourteen years, baby. You never know; you might get lucky tonight! Meaning I’ll make you meatloaf, that is!

***The folks at H2O in Redfern are working hard on my new website, www.lauraleighpackard.com. Fingers crossed, it will be up any day now, so keep checking. I’ll make sure to post my meatloaf recipe for y’all!