It was not your traditional wedding. It was not the beachfront ceremony we had imagined. The bride wore blue. Her maid of honour was her father. The special guest star was our unborn daughter curled up inside, the size of a button. Family only. We kind of stole the thunder from my dad, who turned 60 that day. We honeymooned at the Delta Hotel down the street, where we splurged on pay-per-view and watched Die Hard II before falling asleep.
It was not how we imagined it would be, but 25 years ago today, Deb and I were married. Yesterday, I bought a poinsettia to mark the occasion — it was Deb’s idea. She’s smarter than me when it comes to these things. I presented it last night. “Happy early-versary,” I said.
This morning, we woke up around the usual time, had our coffee together, fretted about Christmas, finances, the contractor coming tomorrow and what our adult children are going to do with their lives. There were litter boxes to clean, a toilet to plunge. And then off to work. I left a little XOXO note on Deb’s steering wheel and told her to tune in to CBC Radio at 4:50. She doesn’t know about the piece below I recorded. She might hate it.
Our marriage is not some epic romance. It’s not even a how-to manual. It’s more of a daily comic strip, a series of small gestures, with characters you love, full of surprises.
Saturday, we’ll have our official anniversary date. We’re going to see the new Star Wars. I bet it will be at least as good as Die Hard II.