I married my husband seventeen years ago on the 4th of July in the courtyard of the Pasadena City Hall. We weren’t trying to be clever chosing a date on which there would always be fireworks no matter how old, tired, or headachey (mine) we might be on any given anniversary. We chose Independence Day because it was the anniversary of our first kiss two years prior. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that for five years out of every seven, our anniversary falls on a week day granting the day off from work. And the fireworks do provide built-in decorations no matter where we go to celebrate. Thank God we love blue and red!
We used to jokingly refer to our anniversary as our Codependence Day. The truth is, we are both whole and complete on our own. We don’t need each other, we don’t complete each other, we aren’t nothing without the other, and we wouldn’t be lost without the other. We love and respect each other. We argue and debate and have heated discussions. I still revert to my mothers’ tactics and lock myself in the bathroom on occasion bemoaning how impossible he is.
But I love him more than air.
After seventeen years of marriage and nineteen years together, I am madly in love with the guy.
And for the time being, we still produce our own fireworks…