Fifteen years. Jonno and I have been together 15 years, today.
I’m terrible at talking about our marriage. Partially because I’m embarrassed by it.
I’m embarrassed because I feel lucky, like I stumbled into it. I feel like that guy in the casino — you’ve heard stories like this, right? — who’s waiting for a friend to come out of the bathroom, half-heartedly drops a quarter into a slot machine, and walks away a million dollars richer, while the retirees who’ve been plugging away at every other machine in the place turn and scowl.
Except the difference is, if I were the guy in the casino, I’d share my winnings with those around me, share the luck. I can’t do that with Jonno. Well, not in the same way.
I’m also embarrassed because, by all rights, our marriage shouldn’t work. Like a bumblebee, if you look at it logically, it makes no sense. The prosecution presents the following evidence:
- I’m a Southerner; he’s a Yankee.
- I like small towns; he prefers big cities (Provincetown excepted).
- I like staying put; he loves traveling.
- I like spending Saturdays at home with the hounds; he’d rather get out and do something new.
- I hate shopping; he enjoys few things better.
- I like theatre; he likes museums.
- I’m in bed by 10pm; he’s at his best when the sun goes down.
- I’m left-brain practical; he’s right-brain visceral.
The list, it goes on and on.
But the amazing and wonderful thing about love, I suppose, is that none of that matters. I don’t know what love depends on — attraction, trust, friendship? — but it definitely isn’t logic.
Fifteen years (and one official marriage ceremony) later, and I know no more than I did when I started. But it’s nice to be here.
Happy anniversary, Jonno. I love you as much as I did then. Even before then.