Today I celebrated 15 years of being married to the same man.
We had a wonderful gift exchange and date. The date included sushi, the movie Bernie (which was equally morbid and hilarious) and a trip to Walmart.
The gift I bought him was a heavy, solid pewter catch-all in the graven image of a bull.
His favorite romantical story is The Faithful Bull by Hemingway. He sees himself in that terse prose. I see him there as well. ...So that's why I bought him the durn thing... It was terribly thoughtful and romantic of me.
His gift to me was Crystal. Waterford. Did you know one is supposed to gift crystal on the 15th wedding anniversary? I did not know this fact or I might have found him a crystal toro.
So far as gifting goes I thought it was, like, one year equals paper.
Five years equals wood (probably so one can knock on it in the hopes the next five years will go more smoothly than the previous five).
Ten years requires Prozac.
And 15 years sees that Prozac and raises the spouse in question a Zanex script. (Don't you for one MINUTE think I take these happy pills! Don't be RIDICULOUS! ...I have been off the juice for at LEAST a year and a half! Hmph!)
But no... Crystal it is. HOW FORTUITOUS!! What a coincidence! I happen to LOVE anything Crystal related because I have no concept of what it means to be narcissistic.
I adore Crystal because Crystal is pretty, pure, and classy.
Wouldn't you agree? You WOULD??!! I'm blushing. Thank you!! You are TOO kind.
My anniversary tonight got me thinking about all the years of wedded bliss my man and I have enjoyed.
Then I got to thinking about our very first fight.
We were dating. Up to that point I had accepted Mr. Pistol as a sexy bull of a man. I questioned nothing he did aloud.
He was gruff and strong and sweet and sensitive and passionate and temperamental and spiritual and passionate and muscular and PASSIONATE...
I answered all of these qualities and more with a fun loving smile. (Often my smile had a decidedly comehither quality which was torture for both of us given the nature of our religion.)
A for instance of my husband's hot headed personality is found in the following.
Once a guy cut us off in traffic in Provo, Utah. My man was so angry he jumped out of the jeep at a stop light and threatened to beat the life out of the clueless cutter. He banged on the window of the terrified traffic idiot and demanded he come out and take his punishment like a man. I responded by calming and soothing my riled man with gentle words and soft caresses. The cutter lived to see another day.
Before I continue about our first fight it is important for you to understand I love food. I LOVE food. Food is sexy. Food feeds the body and soul and brings pleasure to one's entire being. Food relieves the weary and afflicted and pot heads with the munchies.
A simple baked potato, for example, is succulent. Desirable. A feast for the soul. When I consume a steaming hot baked potato I am overtaken by the experience. The soft, hot flesh is solid and satisfying. The cool of sour cream and melting butter is the perfect silky contrast to the steaming tuber itself. If I am lucky and find bits of crispy bacon on my spud I can only describe the experience as otherworldly.
I can (and often do) describe any good food in like manner.
When I eat I savor. Slooowwwwwly. I am always the last to complete any given meal. I just don't want it to end.
My husband loves food too. But he is a bull. He devours his meals with gusto. With passion. He knows what he wants and he goes after it.
The evening of our first true argument found us on the floor of my little college house with enormous plates of food on our laps.
We watched a movie and we ate. I was happy.
I slowly enjoyed each and every morsel. I rolled each bite around my tongue and focused on every spice, temperature and texture.
My man devoured his plate of food in record time, as masculine bulls are wont to do.
"That was GOOD!" he said.
Then he did something I still have a hard time forgiving when I remember.
He used his fork to casually REMOVE some of MY food from MY plate! He shoveled MY food into HIS mouth, CASUALLY!!!!
"Mmmmmmmmm," he said.
My eyes widened. My pulse began to quicken.
Calm down. I thought. He won't do it again. He was just trying to be a cute, food sharing boyfriend.
HE DID IT AGAIN!!
He simply took his fork and again STABBED at my meal and devoured it! CASUALLY!!!
My face felt hot. My breathing became uneven. Fury began to engulf me.
If he does it again I swear I will stab his hand right through with my fork! I thought.
Oblivious to my inner turmoil he reached over yet again to scoop a sizable portion of my meal from off my plate.
I could bear it no longer.
"STOP EATING MY FOOD!" I raged. "It is MY food! And YOU are eating it ALL! And I am HUNGRY!!!!!"
The shock and hurt in his electric blue eyes only fed my flame of fury.
He became angry in return. I then became ENRAGED that he felt he had a RIGHT to be angry.
It took us a good 24 hours to figure out how to make up and play nice.
The last fifteen years have been delicious and maddening.
Remembering our first fight has also brought to mind the first time we kissed. Ohhh. That man can KISS. MMmmmmm.
It brought to mind the first moment I knew I was in Love with this man-child.
I am reminded of the day he proposed and I cried and whispered, "Yes."
I am reminded of our honeymoon in Hawaii. Our luggage was lost. How perfect it was to have no clothes available on our honeymoon!
I am reminded of our first apartment that had no furniture beyond a television and a mattress. We needed nothing more.
I am reminded of the birth of our first child. And our second. Third. And Fourth.
I am reminded that this man is mine forever. And I am his.
I have always been his.
I will always be his.
It is written in Eternity.
What was YOUR first fight?