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Broke Wife, Big City
Who
doesn't want aluminum as gift?
By Aprill Brandon
Well, well, well, I never thought it’d come but here it finally is. At
the end of this month, my husband and I will be celebrating our ninth
wedding anniversary!
...yay…!...?
Yeah. I know. Not that exciting.
I mean, ten years, yeah, of course. That’s a huge deal. You made it an
entire decade. It’s the... copper anniversary? Bronze, maybe?
Holy crap. I just looked it up. It’s the tin or aluminum anniversary.
Who made these rules? (Because my guess is it was either an extremely
practical woman or an extremely clever man).
“Thanks for putting up with my farts for ten years, honey. Here’s some
tuna.”
“Aw, the dolphin-safe kind. Just what I always wanted. Thanks, darling!”
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes...
But nine years? Eh. At nine years your anniversary plans are likely
squished in-between giving your kids lice treatment because there was
another outbreak at preschool and a meeting with Todd, your semi-dodgy
accountant but he’s the only one you can afford.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for marriage and am personally very happy
my husband and I are still going strong. (I don’t want to brag or
anything, but I am not the easiest person to live with).
It’s just that after nine years of building a life together, the
building part is mostly done and now it’s just a whole lot of
maintenance. Maintenance that sucks up all your time and money and
energy. Especially when you throw children and careers and pets into
the mix.
Take, for example, this very moment right here. I am attempting to type
this sentence with a two-year-old squirming on my lap while my husband
texts me about his crazy morning at work and I text back “Crap! We need
band-aids and juice boxes. Can you get them after work?” And then my
2-year-old almost breaks my laptop and I yell at her and she starts
crying and the dog starts barking and my husband texts me back he has a
late meeting but will as soon as it is done.
That is what nine years looks like.
Nine years is spending 27 minutes trying to figure out who can which
kid to their dentist appointment.
Nine years is silently and mutually agreeing to ignore the awful noise
the dishwasher makes every time it’s turned on because there is no
money in the budget currently to fix it.
Nine years is yelling at each other in strained voices about the
ridiculously high vet bill and then 30 seconds later, in a perfectly
calm voice, bringing up which cake you should get for your son’s
birthday as though nothing had happened. Because sulking is only for
couples with the luxury of free time.
Nine years is “hey, come look at this...should I go to the doctor?”
Nine years is constantly forgetting to kiss each other goodbye but
always remembering to get extra pickles for them when ordering take
out.
Nine years is a horror movie and two bottles of wine on Valentine’s
Day.
Nine years is mostly communicating via memes when apart.
Nine years is a truly impressive Tupperware collection.
Nine years is realizing all that sugary sweet marriage advice you got
at your wedding was useless. Never go to bed angry (um, then we’d never
sleep). Never keep secrets from each other (those secret stashes of
fancy chocolate are the reason my family is still alive some days).
Would you rather be right or married? (I’m never wrong so it’s a moot
point, Aunt Carol).
Nine years is “I did your laundry. It’s in a giant pile on the bed.”
Nine years is a truly comfortable silence.
And, if you’re very lucky, nine years is wanting to do all this
god-awful mundane business of living-- the bills, the cleaning, the
obligations, the never-ending youth soccer games, the grocery shopping,
the novella-length kindergarten registration packets-- with no one else
but them.
I love you, Ryan. And I can’t wait to clean out the kids’ closets this
weekend with you.
Which reminds me. Get some wine at the store too.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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