Twenty

Well, it’s official.

I really am old enough to have been married for twenty entire years, since my parents allowed me to walk down the aisle when I was four.

Because, twenty years ago yesterday, I strolled down the red carpet in a pair of white shoes that were two sizes too big for me, because Pinterest didn’t exist in ye olden days, and I wasn’t smart enough to think ahead on my own about shoes that fit.  When you’re from a two-horse town and realize on the day that you’re supposed to GET MARRIED that you either need to buy something NOW or wear a pair of ratty sneakers that you’ve been playing softball in all summer beneath your fantastic wedding dress, you end up at Walmart.  And sometimes Walmart doesn’t have every shoe in every size, because it’s Walmart and not Target.

Wads of Charmin at the ends of each shoe took care of the issue.

And… I know.  What kind of girl lets the sun dawn on her wedding day without ever having thought about shoes?  That would be the suntanned girl who was frightfully busy playing first base on her team and perfecting her biceps by cutting and laying sod all summer.

Our wedding was still pretty much perfect, regardless of the fact that I had to curl my toes like a drunk monkey clinging to a vine in a hurricane, so that I didn’t just walk out of one and leave it behind me on my march down the aisle.  I held onto my dad’s arm, and then there was Hubs, who had been waiting for me.

Twenty years later, he’s still waiting for me, because he insists that girls need to learn to shower, rub on some deodorant, yank on a pair of jeans that don’t stink and walk out the front door when it’s time to go, because WHY DO WE ALWAYS HAVE TO CHECK TO SEE THAT OUR JEWELRY MATCHES OUR SHIRTS AND SPRAY JUST A BIT MORE CLINIQUE PERFUME ALL OVER THE PLACE?

Yesterday morning, we woke up with no plans for the day.  Hubs is currently Vacation Hubs, because he was getting dreadfully jealous of my own summer vacation, which has stretched on for a month already, so he took some time off work.  I told him that HE could’ve been a teacher with summers off, too, but NO.  He chose to be a pre-med-turned-computer-science major, and they work through June, July and August.

(What?  You didn’t know that Hubs was a pre-med major at one time in college?  Yes.  Yes, he was.  And then he decided that being called in on after-hour emergencies to diagnose pink eye and stitch up hands that had lost in battles with knives cutting bagels was going to interfere with televised hockey.  And then he got a D in Human Anatomy and Physiology, because, interestingly enough, there was a textbook that needed to be purchased and studied (neither of which Hubs actually did), and the class wasn’t all about… well… anatomy.  He talked to his adviser about I MAY HAVE SIGNED UP FOR THE WRONG MAJOR, BECAUSE I JUST REALIZED THAT I COULD BE ON-CALL DURING THE STANLEY CUP PLAYOFFS, AND WE CANNOT HAVE THAT HAPPEN.  And THAT, folks, is how Hubs came to study computers in college, and why he is currently an IT guy and not Dr. Hubs, with a poor bedside manner, who says things like, “I’m fairly certain it’s gout, but you’ll have to see my PA, because the Avalanche are playing the Red Wings tonight.”)

(I’m sorry about the rabbit trail.)

Anyway.

Some couples decide to celebrate twenty years of marriage with a trip to Maui or a cruise to Alaska to see whales.  Some of them travel to Italy to visit wineries, while some of them ride camels across the desert to see ancient pyramids.  Some sit on a beach in front of crystal-blue water, with an umbrella-laden drink beside them, and some couples drive two hours north to spend the day AT A TARGET!!

We are THAT family.

Hubs and I loaded up with our boys in the car, and we drove north with these handsome road-tripping companions:

11403161_10207640739596639_20240715419242862_nTwo hours later, there was a Sonic with its deep-fat-fried ‘tater tots for Hubs and a Target for me.  We didn’t really care what the boys wanted, because it wasn’t their twentieth wedding anniversary, so they didn’t get to pick the day’s activities.  However, they both got to buy a little fun at Target, because Thing 2 wanted a new tractor and the boy wanted a new DVD.

Hubs and I aren’t total Scrooges.

At the end of the day, the four of us went out to dinner in Bigger Town, USA at a classy little barbecue spot, because RIBS, HONEY!  THEY HAVE RIBS!  Because Hubs had put up with my seventh circle of craziness for nearly thirty minutes, as I tried to decide between two different lamps at Target (“Do you think THIS ONE?  Or THAT ONE?  Oh, Hubs; I just can’t decide!”) and never once mentioned that poking a hot iron through one of his eyeballs would be more fun than selecting a lamp, I let him have the rib restaurant for the win.

The boy loves ribs, too.

Later, Hubs asked Thing 2 if he loved ribs.  Our toddler wrinkled up his nose and said, “No way, Dad.  I don’t like ribs.  I just like tractors!”

So yes.  Twenty years… a handful of obnoxious pets… two boys… two houses… several cars… a lot of bad movies… a lot of good kisses… and a constant fight over whether we should slice mushrooms for the green salads, and we’re still happily married.

Happy Twenty, Hubs.

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