That’s a big freaking number, Interwebers, 42. Especially if you’re talking years. Forty-two (42) years.That’s the sort of thing that grocery stores celebrate with brightly colored balloons waving gaily at the entrance, and maybe a hot dog cart outside with 25 cent dogs and bag of chips for a nickel to remember the good old days. (I’m looking at you, Walt’s.)
I wasn’t there, obviously, but I’m told this day 42 years ago was a Sunday, dinner was chicken under glass, and there is still talk of the groom staying up until the wee hours the night before with one of the groomsmen and working out the seating chart, the last missing piece to the wedding puzzle. The bride is still a bit miffed that a loving aunt was not allowed to sing at the wedding, but the church let the freaking Notre Dame glee club sing at another wedding in the church later that day.
I’ve seen with my own eyes the photos showing that the bridesmaid dresses were yellow. The mother of the bride wore rose. The mother of the groom wore aqua. The bar was kept open during dinner. There was a band. There was dancing. There was much smiling. It was all followed by a honeymoon in San Francisco.
All of that aside, 42 years, four daughters, a dog, a couple of houses, a host of ups and downs, a visit to the Hoover Fucking Dam, some international travel, and a brand new grandson later, among many other things, some people I know—people who shall remain nameless but who may have been responsible for bringing me into this world—celebrate 42 years of marriage today. Not with 25 cent dogs and nickel bags of chips, but with love and truth and happy memories they’ve collected like petals from the most beautiful rose in all the la-…
Wait, have you met my parents? They would totally celebrate 42 years of marriage with hot dogs and potato chips.
It’s how they roll. And how they will continue to roll, hopefully for another 42.
Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.