The other night, after spending an entire week trying to get our new house unpacked and spending an entire day trying to sell our old junk at a yard sale, I happened to look at my phone and realize the date. I asked my husband “Did you realize tomorrow is our anniversary?” and we both sort of looked at each other like two very confused and ashamed people who forgot their own anniversary.
We quickly made a pact that neither of us could get mad because we both forgot, and the shook on it, like it was a business arrangement, while we continued vegetating on the couch like two people who have just had the longest day ever and couldn’t care less that we had been married 16 years and 364 days.
It was so refreshing.
So, newlyweds of the world, don’t worry, someday you too can forget your anniversary and it won’t be the end of the world, as it would be if you had forgotten any anniversary between One and Ten. One is a big deal, Ten is a big deal, anything in between should at least get an Honorable Mention, after that it’s sort of “par for the course” to get a card, flowers, dinner out…something. But that night on the couch I decided once you hit Seventeen it’s pretty much just a “Hey, lookie there, we have managed to stay married for seventeen years. Cool!” and forgetting the date because your whole world got turned upside down while you moved is perfectly acceptable.
In fact, I’m totally fine with us forgetting our anniversary for the next few years and only celebrating it again once we hit Twenty and go to Hawaii or somewhere equally awesome. Not only will be be celebrating that we’ve made it twenty years, but that we remembered our anniversary, which is seemingly problematic the longer your relationship is.
It dawned on me during this whole anniversary thing that relationships are so much like parenting. The first ten years of marriage represents your first born: You coddle him, you pay attention to his every move, you make sure he eats well, and you never forget important things like doctor’s appointments, you attend all the pre-school parties, and all the boo-boos get special attention. By the time seventeen years rolls around, otherwise known as Baby #2, that kid is eating three square meals a day consisting of pennies and fruit snacks, watching The Walking Dead with you, learning to ride a bike without training wheels at age three, playing in ditches, and unless a splintered bone is protruding from his skin, “you’re fine, brush it off”, because honestly, who has time to go to the doctor? I have boxes to unpack and important anniversaries to forget.