the day that most changed all that followed
Friday, October 3rd, 2008Today is the 16th anniversary of the day I (re)met my husband.
We were at our alma mater. There was football. And beer. A boy dressed too warmly for the uncharacteristically hot October weather, campaigning for a long-forgotten Republican* candidate. A girl dressed too coolly for the chilly night that followed, insistent on moving away from the campaign Winnebago lest there be confusion.
It’s two days shy of the 16th anniversary of the day I knew I’d marry him; three days shy of the anniversary of playing hooky on Fairfield beach and Thanksgiving Day turkey sandwiches at Firehouse Deli and the sudden onset of my high fever and hallucinations and strep and The Crazy (which, by the way, he nursed me through like a champ).
I’m only half-joking when I say I don’t know how many years we’ve been married. The sign on our front porch, inscribed with the date of our wedding, fills in the blanks for me when I forget the details.
The date I remember is October 3, 1992. It’s the day that most changed all of the days that followed.
I love you, babycakes.
*Don’t worry. It’s long since been cured.
