45

That's the number of years TBG and I have been married.

I'm typing this on Sunday night, and it was a Sunday night when we drove away from G'ma and Daddooooo's house, with cans tied to the back bumper and Just Married written on the windows.  

We were starving.  There was lots of food at the wedding, but we were too busy dancing and talking and hugging to eat.  Sister, my attendant, had been charged with keeping me fed.  Unfortunately for both of us, the whiskey sours caught up with her before dinner was served; neither of us ate at all.  By the time we untied the noisemakers we hit upon a plan - dinner before anything else.

We drove to Motel on the Mountain, a lovely-from-afar resort up on a mountain which I passed and lusted for every summer as Daddooooo drove us to Lake George for vacation.  We should have done our research.  Two weeks after we checked out the place closed for a total renovation.  The arachnid in the shower added to the ambience.  

The restaurant, however, was fantastic, as was the view from our table.  We toasted my parents who had paid for a meal we hadn't eaten.  We toasted our future.  We battled the spider and added up the gifts, somewhat embarrassed to be the recipients, recognizing this as somewhat weird, and smiling at the fact that we could admit it out loud.  

It's been that way for 45 years.  There aren't many filters, and that's just fine. One of us saying We shouldn't talk about this right now has saved us over the years.  Recognizing that marriage is hard work has made the bumps easier to navigate.  

Over time, the marriage has taken on a life of its own;  I often feel as if there are three of us in the house.  Sometimes it gets crowded in here, especially as we enter month six of Pandemic '01.  Most of the time, though,  the marriage is a comfy couch, with butt impressions that welcome us, support us, know us, and make allowances for our foibles, be they spills or spats.

Happy Anniversary, Big Guy.  

P.S. This is your card.