Twenty-two years ago today my husband gave me flowers for the very first time. It’s not inconsequential that we’d gotten married earlier that day as well. But he’d never, ever given me flowers before. Maybe he finally figured that, unlike the ephemeral flowers, I was going to stick around for a while. Who knows? I still don’t always (make that often) know what’s going through his mind. But I do know that he loves me, even when I’m at my most unlovable. And I count on that.
We met at work. I first noticed him in the summer of 1980, when I was working there as a summer floater and he was starting in the intern program. It was his first day. I had to go down to Personnel and while I was there I noticed the new interns sitting on a couch. I tried not to stare at any of them, but I did notice that he was pretty cute.
I graduated from college a year later and went to work there full time. Thankfully, D was still there. What if he’d left for a different job? Imagine… I wonder who I’d be married to? I wonder who my children would be? I wonder who I would be? I’m so glad he stuck around.
Anyway, we were passing acquaintances for several years. Then, in the summer of 1984, a colleague of mine convinced me to play on the company softball team with her. No matter that I couldn’t throw a ball (my dad always told me that I threw like a girl; well duh!). Somehow I became the pitcher and somehow I also managed to catch the eye of the first baseman, my future husband.
We fell in love going to baseball games. The company we worked for owned the Mets, and since I was in corporate pr I had access to great seats. I had the tickets, D had the passion and the subway skills to get us out to Flushing on the 7 train. He taught me everything I used to know about baseball but have long since forgotten. I impressed him with my ability to rattle off all the players’ statistics (reading the sports pages was part of my job). Those were heady days.
Two years later, shortly before we got engaged, D told me that he actually didn’t think he’d ever get married. It was a serious conversation and I came to the conclusion that it was time for me to move on. I knew I wanted to get married and have a family, and as much as I also knew that he was the one I wanted to do that with, it seemed that it just wasn’t going to happen. We were heading into the Christmas season, though, and I decided to wait to end things until the new year. The idea of spending the holidays without him was too depressing.
Good thing, because when we exchanged gifts, he told me that mine was too big to wrap and that I needed to close my eyes and hold out my hands. I thought he was going to get a pair of skis out of the closet, but when I opened my eyes I saw an old, yellowing, tattered box on my outstretched palm. Inside was the engagement ring that had belonged to his great-grandmother.
I haven’t worn that ring in years. It was fragile when I got it and a few years of wearing it proved to be the death knell. On our 20th anniversary D gave me a new engagement ring, and although he didn’t actually ask me to marry him all over again, I would have said yes.
Things aren’t perfect. My friend K recently gave me a t-shirt which says, “Just because I'm moody doesn't mean you're not irritating.” He doesn’t get it! I read about a woman who started a blog called “My Husband is Annoying” and I thought that perhaps that’s the blog I was really meant to write. He makes me absolutely crazy sometimes. But one thing I’ve learned over the years is that there are always two sides to every story, and if he’s making me crazy, then it’s damn well certain that I’m doing the same to him. And yet he never tells me that. He just lets me know in a myriad of ways, each and every day, that he loves me.
The note that accompanied my wedding day roses said, “Your flowers, Mrs. G.” My note to him today says, “My love, Mr. G.”
I do.
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