“Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that is perfect for you.”
I STILL have feelings of extreme smugness, five years down the track today, for the way I organised things when my husband and I married. Yes yes, it was all very beautiful, I looked gorgeous, the Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant cried, we got to see our friends and loved ones, yada yada yada,** but that’s not what I’m talking about. Because the real triumph…
…was the date.
We got married the day after my birthday.
Not only does it mean the Festival of Kate continues on (and on, and on, if I drop enough hints, which I well and truly do); but it also tends to lessen the chances of the Man forgetting either occasion. This means in turn his odds of mysteriously and completely independently falling down the stairs/under a truck/swimming with the fishes are minimised. Mind you, the falling down the stairs is a possibility at any time of the year, because two cats; however, that’s a story for another time. Probably when they’ve managed to work out how to open their own mince and have thus taken us both out with a wire across the top of the hallway.
So. The fifth anniversary, which I am reliably informed brings with it a gift of wood. Durable and long-lasting, wood is seen as symbolising the strength of a relationship. It also symbolises a bloody big lump of wood, but perhaps I am being too literal.
Much to the mutual bewilderment of the Man and myself, despite the Four Horsemen of the relationship apocalypse, Illness, Moving, Family, and Work - under the leadership of that capable Lucifer, Stress - giving it their best shot at bringing on the end of days, we’ve clung on to our own personal piece of driftwood; and five years on from saying ‘I do’, we are both yet to say ‘I don’t’.
Why? To be honest, I think much like most ordinary couples, I haven’t really got a clue. I’m almost certain he asks himself on a fairly regular basis, usually after I’ve had a downturn in wellness and he’s stuck with all the adulting. Probably because every day, that rough-sawn log we cling to together on in the sea of bills, and tired, and what to have for dinner (the debate for the ages), has a thousand thousand sets of our initials carved on it.
It has knotholes holding the treasures we’ve created that an ocean of outside care will never get at. Laughter, usually inappropriate. Screaming at sport on TV. Car air drum solos and awesome harmonising. Bits and pieces of quotes nobody else could ever unravel. Kitchen discos. Those bloody murderous cats. Kisses. Snarkiness. More laughter. Garden pruning wars. Compromise. Learning how to argue. More kisses. Grief. Friendship.
And so very much love.
Two halves of a heart who, in a chance meeting, years ago, said ‘oh, there you are’, and started beating as one; and in the best possible way, became an us, rather than simply an I and a you.
When looking ahead to the next five, ten, twenty years for myself and the Man - who will always resemble David Tennant in my heart, if not in reality - I like to think of this.
Wood, much like hope, floats. It may get waterlogged, true, but if it’s sturdy and well-seasoned, the chances are that even if flung against rocks, tempest-tost, a good piece of driftwood will make it safely to shore. And there, salt-laden, it will burn with a strong blue tinged flame for our mutual warmth and comfort, no matter what storms are to come.
And that’s nothing to poke a stick at.
**To everyone who was there… you know I love you! This was for (weak) comedic purposes only xxx
