The Leather Anniversary

My husband and I just passed the third anniversary of our first date. I'm not usually good with these sorts of things, but I remember the day because it's the birthday of one of my oldest and most cherished friends. According to tradition (or Hallmark, whichever came first), three is the leather anniversary. I didn't buy my husband the vintage club chairs he's been coveting; nor did he bring me home the Kelly bag of my dreams. In fact, we let the day go by, unremarked and uncelebrated.

When I look at the changes in my life, a thousand days doesn't seem nearly long enough for such a fundamental transformation. But, truth told, nothing was the same after the day we met. I drove home that Sunday afternoon three years ago with more than just a good date perma-smile on my face -- I drove home with the certainty of a woman who had seen her future.

I've thought about this a lot, and think that our fabulous first date might have boxed us in from the start. We created a myth based on some epic sense of destiny, and when you add in the urgency that comes with long distance, it was pretty much impossible for us to address his second thoughts without admitting that maybe, just maybe, we might be wrong about "us." Every time we thought about slowing down, we were overcome by the notion that we BELONGED together, and kept barreling full steam ahead. Too much predestination, I suppose, and not nearly enough free will.

So here I am, with the benefit of three years hindsight, still sure that we would have ended up where we are. And you know what? If we had backed off a bit in the beginning, taken it slow and gotten to know each other -- demons and all -- before making any big moves or commitments, we'd still be right here, ignoring our leather anniversary.


The Wife Who Knows