In the beginning, my newlywed husband thought our wedding anniversary should always be on a Friday. It would be the second Friday of November. I won out along the way because it’s hard enough to remember a date, let alone a Thanksgiving-esque calculation.
Seven years ago, November 15th was a Friday, a gray and rainy day, when we made our way in separate cars to the Washington County courthouse. He was wearing his black suit that had served as a uniform for all formal occasions throughout high school. I had a mother-of-the bride ensemble from David’s Bridal. It had a peachy hue to it and I carried a few calla lilies.
There were definite butterflies in my stomach when I put my bouquet down to walk through the metal detector. We assembled with our wedding guests in a crusty old judge’s chambers. In attendance were our two sets of parents and my sister.
We stood across the desk from this old fellow who really seemed as though he’d much rather be marching dead-beat dads in a chain gang through the lobby. Instead he had to perform a wedding. He pulled out a tiny notebook and began to mumble his way through. “Dearly beloved…” and all that.
At the end he said, “Kiss her.” Tim obeyed and the judge says, “I hope it works out.” Our group had an awkward moment before moving into the courthouse to take pictures.
It has worked out for us for seven years. In that time crusty judge man passed away and all sorts of things have shifted and changed. We've moved from apartment to townhouse to apartment. Soon we’ll move again. We had our daughter. We've taken turns being the breadwinner, although my term in that position was decidedly much shorter than his. We've had sickness and health.
I love our wedding day memories and every moment of these seven years that have passed in the blink of an eye. Happy Anniversary my love!