|Wear pearls and smash the patriarchy. Is my new motto.|
We've since had two children and I feel like we've both aged like 37 years since then. Actually, not really. I've aged 37 and he's aged like 19.
Maybe we are aging in dog years now. Although the math on that isn't quite right, is it?
I've written about my last first date a variety of times over the years. (I particularly like this one.) We like to go to the Tabard Inn to commemorate the event, although we were unable to this year (see aforementioned children, plus an ear infection--mine, oddly enough).
Sunday night we said, "Happy anniversary!" to each other and celebrated by watching The Good Wife after we'd coaxed the kids into bed.
Normally I am excited to write this anniversary post. I enjoy reflecting back on the past year.
But I've been anxious and upset since the election. I just got over bronchitis, and I'm sick again. I've been feeling pretty despondent.
Nick thinks I over-react to everything. Sometimes I do, or maybe always. I don't know.
Even before the results came out, he thought I was too anxious about the election. Now he thinks that I get too freaked out over the news I read.
He questions my sources. And I'm all, New York Times, or CNN, or whatever. What does he think? That I'm clicking on weird random made up news from Russia?
I finally said to him something along these lines: Look. You're a straight white man. You have never not been in a position of privilege. You are never in a vulnerable position. So cut it the fuck out with telling me not to be anxious.
I have all this anger, and all this fear. I need to do something with it. I am not sure what that something is. And you can call me a drama queen, but I really do feel like I need to start preparing for Thunderdome.
I mean, I have friends whose kids are at a middle school in Bethesda. And last Friday, someone drew swastikas in the bathroom.
Bethesda. If the hate is happening in liberal Bethesda, it is happening everywhere.
Cities are going to burn in the next four years. I believe this.
It's like Tourette's. I can't stop talking about it.
I went to a birthday Friday night. It was all anyone talked about.
Saturday night we went to a truly lovely, love-filled wedding. We took this picture there.
(And while I didn't discuss politics with the bride or groom, I talked about it with a lot of other people.)
But let me tell you about the wedding.
The vows were personal, charming, and funny. The bride was stunningly beautiful, the groom handsome. People ate and drank and danced and had fun.
Our kids were invited. India danced like a whirling dervish. She was dressed up all fancy, which she loves. She had a hell of a time. We all had a blast.
Weddings of wonderful people give hope to the world. They remind you that there is joy and goodness and people come together to celebrate it and rejoice in it.
There is joy. There is goodness. There is hope.
And when you've been married long enough and your relationship is solid enough, you actually can hear criticism from your husband and consider the merit, and, if necessary, tell your husband to cut it the fuck out.
And you will still love each other.