We Now Pronounce You...
Well, you asked for fall fashion, and I'm on it, I swear. But it will require pictures. And I can't locate my camera cord right now. But it's next on my list, I promise!
Since Ashley mentioned the joyous, drunken weeping occasion of my nuptials, I thought I'd go there. Last week marked the Fluff seventh anniversary. Seven, the mystical number. Seven, the year of the impending itch. Seven--but a blip in comparison to my grandparents 56 year marriage, but half the length of my parents'. Seven years, plus the three that we spent together prior to the event, makes a solid decade together, and nearly a third of my life. There's some math for you!
As much as I wanted to get married (and make no mistake, I was the one who had to talk Senor Fluff into it. I say "talk"--being gallant, he won't use the word "badger," which might be more appropriate), by the time it actually rolled around, I had some second thoughts. "Twenty-five is awfully young to get married," mused I. "Only prom queens and Mormons get married at 25!" [I'm not saying that I was a religiously-tolerant 25, am I now?] And if I admit it, 25 was young to get married; I was just finishing up my comprehensive exams, about to start the dissertation. Senor Fluff had just gotten his first tenure-track job in a teensy Mid-Atlantic conservative town. We had a small (and quite lovely) little ritual in my hometown, and then buggered off to a new place, where we knew no one and had to inhabit new roles. My advice? Not the way to begin your first year of marriage.
In many ways, I owe the fact that I'm not a young divorcee--a la Britney--to Senor Fluff. It might be because his own parents have been married for 30+ years, or because he's a huge fan of inertia (some of his old pals call him "Mr. Don't Fuck with It," in fact). In large measure, however, we're still together because he gently expects that I will discuss the things on which we disagree. My natural tendency is to throw things and stomp around the house, but it's nigh on impossible to do that when someone asks you to tell them what it is that's bothering you. Dammit.
A newly-married friend just wrote that "marriage is about sharing." I adamantly disagree. Forget sharing. I'm all about having something for yourself, and your spouse having his/her own things. I think marriage is about articulating and accepting difference. [You like to sit in a booth? I like to sit at a table. You hate eggplant? I love eggplant! You want hot dogs and tater tots? I want swanky French bistro food! You love Jim Jarmuch movies? I think they're boring as hell! Really? I never would have imagined!] Assume that you share the same ideas and you're dead in the water. Embrace the gulf between your own preferences and those of the person you live with--that's our game plan.
Until recently, I think I was unconsciously convinced that, eventually, I would end up divorced. It just seemed like the thing that happened. But perhaps by picking someone who refuses to let me play out either some Simpson/Lachey Newlyweds drama or my parents' "quiet lives of desperation" pattern, I've backed into something that promises to survive the long haul.
Of course, by writing that, I've probably jinxed myself.
Fall fashion coming up, y'all.
Since Ashley mentioned the joyous, drunken weeping occasion of my nuptials, I thought I'd go there. Last week marked the Fluff seventh anniversary. Seven, the mystical number. Seven, the year of the impending itch. Seven--but a blip in comparison to my grandparents 56 year marriage, but half the length of my parents'. Seven years, plus the three that we spent together prior to the event, makes a solid decade together, and nearly a third of my life. There's some math for you!
As much as I wanted to get married (and make no mistake, I was the one who had to talk Senor Fluff into it. I say "talk"--being gallant, he won't use the word "badger," which might be more appropriate), by the time it actually rolled around, I had some second thoughts. "Twenty-five is awfully young to get married," mused I. "Only prom queens and Mormons get married at 25!" [I'm not saying that I was a religiously-tolerant 25, am I now?] And if I admit it, 25 was young to get married; I was just finishing up my comprehensive exams, about to start the dissertation. Senor Fluff had just gotten his first tenure-track job in a teensy Mid-Atlantic conservative town. We had a small (and quite lovely) little ritual in my hometown, and then buggered off to a new place, where we knew no one and had to inhabit new roles. My advice? Not the way to begin your first year of marriage.
In many ways, I owe the fact that I'm not a young divorcee--a la Britney--to Senor Fluff. It might be because his own parents have been married for 30+ years, or because he's a huge fan of inertia (some of his old pals call him "Mr. Don't Fuck with It," in fact). In large measure, however, we're still together because he gently expects that I will discuss the things on which we disagree. My natural tendency is to throw things and stomp around the house, but it's nigh on impossible to do that when someone asks you to tell them what it is that's bothering you. Dammit.
A newly-married friend just wrote that "marriage is about sharing." I adamantly disagree. Forget sharing. I'm all about having something for yourself, and your spouse having his/her own things. I think marriage is about articulating and accepting difference. [You like to sit in a booth? I like to sit at a table. You hate eggplant? I love eggplant! You want hot dogs and tater tots? I want swanky French bistro food! You love Jim Jarmuch movies? I think they're boring as hell! Really? I never would have imagined!] Assume that you share the same ideas and you're dead in the water. Embrace the gulf between your own preferences and those of the person you live with--that's our game plan.
Until recently, I think I was unconsciously convinced that, eventually, I would end up divorced. It just seemed like the thing that happened. But perhaps by picking someone who refuses to let me play out either some Simpson/Lachey Newlyweds drama or my parents' "quiet lives of desperation" pattern, I've backed into something that promises to survive the long haul.
Of course, by writing that, I've probably jinxed myself.
Fall fashion coming up, y'all.
posted by kfluff at 9:05 AM
5 Comments:
A very smart chick once said to me: "There is no perfect person. There is only the person perfect for you." 10 years later I'm still listening to everything she says.
Congrats on reaching 7 years (and I couldn't help but check your math).
Having just celebrated 10 years with Monsieur Foo, my mantra has always been "Difference works". Hell, I just watched Ghost Rider last night. Need I say more?
Well, I don't know from "perfect," but he'll do. :)
Frenchie, I'm sure Lee would agree with me when I say that you and M. Foo are the models for difference works. [But hell, even I won't see Ghost Rider.]
Awww. Sniff. _I_ never thought you'd get divorced. I've said it before and I'll say it again: clone Senor Fluff--the ladies will be lining up for miles.
Oh, congrats! I'm late to this post, but congrats all the same--I think you crazy kids just might make it!
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