Four years ago this week, my husband and I met and started
falling in love. Or perhaps it was a virus we both caught at the same time.
It's hard to tell the difference, what with the dizziness and nausea, and the
occasional breaking out into a sweat. But one way or another, the bug stuck and
we're still together, lo these many years later.
Some of you may think that four years is nothing. You may
have toothbrushes older than that. But factor into the equation the fact that
hubby and I have been together for four "middle-aged person years," which like
dog years, is almost three decades. No wonder we're both exhausted and sit
around talking about the good old days when we had sex.
In the beginning, we were young and naïve. Both of us were still
in our forties, although hubby was just hanging on by a slender hair attached
to his head by a dab of what appeared to be Gorilla Glue. We saw the world
through wide, presbyopic eyes, wondering what the future had in store for us
and wondering if we'd be able to see it without our bifocals.
Our courtship was tres romantique. On our first date, he
told me about his chronic back problems, his early criminal dabblings, and his
incontinent, demented mother. I mentioned my two ex-husbands and the fact that
I had abandonment issues and should probably never be in a long-term committed
relationship again unless I found someone who was required to wear an ankle
bracelet and never leave the house. He moved in a few weeks later because after
rolling one of his cars down a mountainside and blowing up the engine in the
other, he needed a ride to his lousy job. It was easier for me to shuttle him
to and fro if we were living in the same house. Besides, it was summer and I
had air conditioning.
Ah, the baggage. We were both carrying on items that were
way too big to squeeze into the overhead compartment of the relationship, but
neither of us seemed to care. We were ready for a trip on What Could It Hurt?
Airlines and everything seemed romantic, even the fact that he had to use a
T-square and a tape measure when we made the bed together.
When he finally decided to make an honest taxi-driver, I
mean woman, out of me, I bought a couple of wedding magazines. Not that there
was much time for planning - he called from work on a Monday and said his boss
would give him Friday afternoon off (Friday the thirteenth, by the way, on a
leap year!) to tie the knot. The stars, the planets, and his boss were aligned?
How could I possibly say no?
Although weddings are a multi-billion dollar industry in the
U.S., there
doesn't seem to be even a wedge of the market devoted to brides over a certain
age. Let's say that age is twenty-five. "That age is twenty-five." Good, I feel
better now that we're on the same page. As I glanced at the magazines, I saw no
brides with crows' feet, none with kinky gray hair springing up through their
veils, none who looked worried about whether their mother-in-law had remembered
her Depends. There was Modern Bride and Elegant Bride, even Hawaii Bride and
Groom. But I couldn't find Perimenopausal Bride anywhere.
So I said to hell with it, slapped on an estrogen patch,
found my shortest mini-skirt, and we had our wedding at the bar where we met.
Did I neglect to mention we may have been drunk on that fateful day four years
ago? And that he watched me get a tattoo on our third date? So much baggage, so
little time...
The remarkable thing is, this has been my best marriage so
far. And I have comparison data. Hubby has turned out to be the kind of guy who
calls from work to see how my day is going, occasionally buys flowers, and
isn't afraid of jewelry stores. He even leaves the toilet seat down, which
means I've gotten fewer late night butt-hickeys than in my previous
relationships. He doesn't do his share of the household chores, but I'm old
enough not to believe in fairy tales. And sure, he may occasionally glance at
other women, but I know he can't really focus on them, so it's all good.
The moral of this story, if there is one, is that if you're
over forty and need a hand truck to haul around your baggage, love may be right
around the corner. So go ahead, place a personal ad with your deepest darkest
secrets ("Rabid ex-smoker with codependency issues and a meddling ex-spouse
seeking someone to listen to me whine about my job while hot-flashing.") After
all, if you reveal the worst of you from the start, there really is nowhere to
go but up.
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Quirkee Voices 
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