A Marriage Made in Heaven

(I realized while writing this, the subject of my marriage will have to be a series of postings. It’s impossible to capture 10 years of bliss in one posting. Gives you— and me— something to look forward to.)

As I lay in bed the other night mulling over the day’s activities, I was hit by a “divine” inspiration for the subject of my second blog posting: my marriage. My 9-year and 11- month marriage that began in 1968 and ended in 1978. A marriage made in heaven—or perhaps not. And on this, the anniversary of our wedding day, I’m getting misty-eyed and sentimental.

We got married on a typically cold winter day—Thursday, February 29, 1968. (It was his idea to get married on Leap Year—“Only have to celebrate every four years.” Ha!) The day started with my being in an absolute panic because I couldn’t find the marriage license. I was in the process of moving and I was sure I’d accidentally packed it away in one of the boxes. I called my ex in tears, practically hysterical. He must have felt sorry for me, because he told me where he’d hid it. It’s always nice to begin a marriage with humor.

We were married at 10:00 in the morning at the courthouse in downtown Springfield. Our witnesses were the judge’s secretary and her friend. A janitor stood in the back doorway leaning on his broom or mop (I’m not making this stuff up, folks!) I was wearing a sleeveless white lace dress I’d made, which nicely showcased the bruises on my arms from the three times they had to stick me to draw blood. Back then, no stickee, no marriage license-ee. Our reception was held at my in-laws house; lunch was tuna salad sandwiches. The attendees were my in-laws, and us—the happy couple. My ex had a long-standing policy of not having his picture taken, (He’d spent the night in jail during the Kennedy campaign when he created a disturbance trying to confiscate the film of the photographer who’d taken his picture. But I digress.) so a few wedding pictures were taken of me in my wedding dress using a Polaroid Swinger Camera. (My yellowed dress still hangs in my closet—I’ll bet the feng shui folks would have a hissy fit if they knew that!)

We left that afternoon for a short honeymoon trip to New Orleans. Since we had time before our flight, we stopped by the aircraft hangar, where my ex had recently worked. One of the mechanics said, “What’s new, Henry?” to which he replied… “Nothing.” He didn’t introduce me or mention we’d gotten married that morning. Bless his heart; it must have slipped his mind.

The rest of our wedding day was equally romantic. When we got to our hotel, he spotted a coin-operated copy machine in the lobby. He sold copy machines but had never seen a coin-operated one before, so he threw the suitcase in the room and headed back down to the lobby to find out about coin-operated copiers, while I cooled my heels in the room.

That night, his best friend called at 11:00, apparently thinking he would “interrupt” us. To the best of my recollection, he didn’t. (My ex was probably poring over brochures on coin-operated copy machines.)

The end of a perfect wedding day. And the beginning of a perfect marriage. Stay tuned. It gets better!

(So I get home from work last night (2/28) and find a vase of roses and a box of fudge on my doorstep, a gift from my ex, commemorating our anniversary. He apparently experienced our marriage differently than I did—or he feels very guilty. I’m guessing the latter!)

Do These Depends® Make My Butt Look Fat?

The past couple of years I’ve spend a fair amount of time around old people—or, I guess to be politically correct, senior citizens. Enough time to be scared stiff. As I ease into old age (or have I already arrived?), I’m trying to figure out what kind of old person I’ll be. Will I be active and feisty? Will I be depressed and defeated? Or will I be lucky enough to have any control over what kind of person I am?

I’ve been hanging around the nursing home lately. As a result, I’ve spent a fair amount of time wondering if I’ll end up in one someday. Not my goal, mind you, but my fear. A possibility. My friend landed in one over a year ago. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her first choice of where to spend her golden years.

I’ve become acquainted with some of the residents as a result of my visits. There’s Tony, whom I’ve nicknamed “K.K,” because that’s pretty much all he says. Constantly. “K, K, K, K, K” (repeat). One day I thought I’d see if I could get him to say something else. (His chanting was driving me crazy.) As Tony sat in his wheelchair chanting his mantra, I said “Howya doin’, Tony?” He paused and said, “You’re right.” A man acknowledged I’m right. Go figure!

Margaret carries her doll around, anxiously inquiring whether I’ve seen the baby’s mother. I admire the baby, but that doesn’t calm her. She’s apparently tired of taking care of someone else’s baby. Can’t blame her.

Then there’s the old couple that sit together on the loveseat. I’ve never seen her face because she’s always slumped over with her face buried in her husband’s chest. He strokes her hair tenderly. It sets my mind to wandering — if I would be lucky enough to have someone stroke my hair if I’m ever in that position. No need to dwell on that.

I’ve decided that, if I ever end up in a nursing home, I will be the one with the hot pink stretch pants, the wild, flowered top and the bright orange house slippers. I’ll have cotton candy pink hair—or cotton candy blue---or maybe streaks of both. My walker will have chartreuse tennis balls at the end of the legs to help me slide along. I’ll be the first to arrive for bingo and the last to leave. And I’ll be the one admiring myself in front of reflective surfaces, asking passersby, “Do these Depends® make my butt look fat?”

Old age. Bring it!

(A postscript: Margararet's obituary was in today's paper. She was 91. I wish her a peaceful journey.)