Birthday Girl

Mrs. U has resolved to start counting backward this year, lest our lives surreptitiously cross the halfway pole while we’re not looking.

I just tell people we got married at 16. Sixteen? Really? Wow….

Problem solved.  See how easy that was? Never underestimate the efficacy of discursive bullshit.

We met in college, so it’s only a wee bit of exaggeration.   She got a teaching credential and I got my MR. degree, to alter a joke, as she would prove to be the fateful encounter and our marriage the lasting achievement of those years from my end.

Would we have met in the Tinder era? In my canine greed, I might have swiped past her and bumblefucked my way into my thirties, insensible to cosmic error. Alternatively, had we both swiped right, would we have lasted, or passed through each other on our way to greater debauchery greener pastures?

Say this for the dial-up era, it demanded conversational skills.  Also the ability to share space quietly, without screens or stimuli.  The virtues of courtship may have fallen from favor, but longevity establishes a beachhead there.  I married for substance and got stuck with beauty.

A social determinist would note both our parents were married for fifty years, and credit our union as regression to the mean.  As clever and rebellious as we thought we were, the fix was in.  We were the marrying kind.

There are too many moving parts in the whirlwind for such easy explanation. You can believe in a doting fairy godmother, like Mrs. U, or you can give thanks to bigger hands.