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Published: 6/5/2012 | Updated: 5/25/2013
Today is the one-year anniversary of my wife getting health insurance, also known as our wedding. Just kidding. Sort of. When you get older you tend to have a practical eye toward things like weddings, anniversaries, suffering from death and other items of life. I thought it was Sunday. She thought it was Thursday. This is why we are so compatible, because it's in the middle. Our wedding was announced on Facebook and we invited a bunch of people to hang out in the backyard. Some people spend thousands on flowers, receptions, bands and beer. Our wedding cost us a coat of paint because I asked my daughter to repaint the back porch steps, where the nuptials took place. I vaguely remember giving legendary actor and sort-of-brother-in-law Greg Ellery some money to buy tomato juice, but that was about it as far as our preparations went. Backyard weddings are the way to go. After we nervously gulped the "I dos" and the two-minute ceremony was over, we chased the shade in the yard all afternoon, busted out the guitars and hooted and hollered in joyous celebration. About the only hiccup was when the dogs blessed the blessed union, if you know what I mean, but a few strategically placed traffic cones (gifts from my daughter, don't ask) took care of that issue. Apparently the one-year traditional gift is known as the "Paper Anniversary." The appropriate flower is the carnation. I know this because of exhaustive research as the big day approached, and it ain't easy to Google at the last second when your wife isn't looking, you know. As you go on the titles get prohibitively more ominous, like "Diamond" and "Gold" and "Empty Your Bank Account" and "Don't You Dare Think About Playing Golf This Weekend." Sheryl explained the paper thing as celebrating by giving each other pieces of paper. If it's a receipt saying my credit car bill is paid, I'm good. She is being more ethereal about it. "I think if you give paper to Roberto at Tiramisu Tuesday night, I will be very happy," she said, eyes glazed over at the thought of going to our favorite Q-town restaurant. "Hmm. Hmm. I don't want flowers. Hmmm. Hmmm." I am very bad at remembering dates and celebrating anniversaries. In fact it's probably pathetic that I remember the birthdays of our dogs and cats more than nieces, nephews, brother, sisters, father, my own offspring, etc. Remembering when we got married should be a big deal. Actually the health insurance girl should get a gold medal for putting up with me in a legal sense. Apparently you don't get gold until you've been married 50 years, but my ashes will be sprinkled in the bunker on No. 17 at Westview Golf Course (I've spent enough time in there) long before the half century deal rolls around. The one-year anniversary should be known as the "Wow Anniversary." As in, "Wow, I can't believe you've put up with me for an entire year." As in, "Wow, I can't believe it went by so fast (cough)." As in, "Wow, we need to ask my daughter to repaint the back porch steps again." True love. No paper, diamonds or gold properly expresses it. Thank goodness. -- rhart@whig.com/221-3370
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