I recently celebrated my 28th wedding anniversary. Of course, always on our anniversary, we recollect and discuss, at various times during the day, what we were doing on the actual day. My husband always likes to state the old line, "My wife and I were happy for 21 years. And then we got married" - at least forty-five times throughout the day and I let him. In fact, I agree with him. And then we have a good laugh, thank God for alcohol, and continue our reminiscing. Which brings me to the whole point of this blog.
I am currently in the process of interviewing selected finalists for Grand Magazine's Sexiest GrandDad contest. The interviews will appear in the July edition, possibly along with the winner. Most of the men I interviewed have been married for more than 25 years and some of them married their high school sweethearts. As I talked to these men about their relationships, I began thinking of the men who were formerly in my own life as my "significant others" prior to making that lifelong commitment to my husband.
I have dated only 5 "men" during my lifetime although I suppose, at the time, they were not actually men that I dated, and not because I am some sort of sick child molester, but because I dated all of them in my teens. I did marry my husband when I was 21, so he actually crossed the threshold from boyhood to manhood while I was with him. And, logistically, one could possibly say that I dated 6 boys (men), but I don't really count Steve, who was 12 and I was 13 when we professed our undying and eternal love for each other, crouching in the low-ceilinged fort he had built down by the creek. A fort which, not long after our short stint as a secret couple ended, apparently turned into some love shack for Steve, my brother and various neighborhood girls.
The relationship I had with Steve ended pretty much with our second kiss which took place about a mile from home at a pond where he used to fish. We were experimenting with open mouthed and closed mouthed (but never tongue in mouth) kissing when a shriek rang out above our heads so unnerving that I realized that the loch ness monster did, indeed, exist and, contrary to everyone else's belief, it did not reside in Scotland. It resided in this particular pond on Hamilton Road in quiet Fairport, New York.
After Steve and I were able to unfreeze from our liplock, which was made worse by the fear-induced inhale we both took, the sound of which pucker-unlatching could only be described as the kind an angry cork makes when pried from a bottle of very bubbly, very cheap, very old champagne, we realized it was not old lochy. Instead, it was his sister, Joyce, who was a year older than me. And believe me, we were deeply disappointed because Joyce's wrath was way worse than anything a monster could do to us.
Steve made the mistake of relenting to her screams and walked apprehensively up the rocky hill towards his executioner as Joyce stood like a demon wraith summoning her cronies from the grave. Her long, spindly hair whipped wildly in the wind as she held a Medusa-like stance, hands placed firmly on hips. Her angrily distorted mouth spewed all kinds of naughty words, expounding her ability to cause us inconceivable pain if we did not get our "arses" up there NOW. I, on the other hand, was no dummy - plus I didn't have to live with her. With that in mind, I quickly shifted myself deeper into the high grass surrounding the pond, knowing that if she came looking for me, I could outmaneuver her. I had been to that pond many times before (to skip stones, not to kiss) and she hadn't. After all, she was trying to be a grown up, for crying out loud, which is pretty much what all 14 year old girls are supposed to do by that age. I, however, wasn't yet ready to let go of my tomboyhood, and was thanking my lucky stars for this decision and for my confidence in being wily, fast and shrewd when it came to traversing rocky terrain and climbing a tree if necessary. Right then and there, I regretted even trying to be a grown-up woman, and made a vow to continue being a tomboy for at least 3 more years and to cast off any desire for romance or the intrigue it causes in a body filled with new, freshly-packed hormones.
Now that you understand why Steve isn't included in the men I've dated, I'll say that those I did date have been married for many years. I know this because their families loved me, even though the boys apparently didn't, and I kept in touch with moms, sisters, etc., over the years, off and on. I marvel at the fact that I chose men who not only had the ability to stay with a woman but they actually found a woman willing to stay with them (sorry, gentlemen, but this is my blog after all, and I can say what I want).
So what makes a happy marriage or what makes a person want to stay in a relationship long after lust and romance dwindle? From what I know of these relationships and my own, it is a deep-rooted love of family. It is a respect for one's spouse and an involvement in community things, and all things family. It is about becoming your spouse's best friend and confidante. It's about honesty and sharing, and loyalty and devotion. I have seen this demonstrated in the men I dated many years ago towards their wives and their families. And I have it in my own life. These are traits that I believe will get you longevity in a marriage, whether you are a woman or a man.
So rather than going into a relationship thinking you are going to change a person, look for the things you like that are normal. Look for a deep love of family, but don't marry a mama's boy or a daddy's girl. Otherwise, next thing you know, your mother-in-law is moving in with you, curlers, 36-hour bra and all, taking over your kitchen and your husband's time, and your father-in-law is holding a gun to your head if you don't buy his daughter that diamond tennis bracelet you promised her when you were negotiating sex on the hood of the car with your wife and mistakenly forgot to close the garage door, causing the neighbor's daughter to never be the same again when she innocently rode her bike up the drive, and your wife can't even leave the house now. You get the picture.
As for me and Steve, we never made it past first base because, not long after the pond episode, Joyce called me and told me that if I didn't stop seeing her brother, her mother was going to do all kinds of things to me, including forcing me to eat a skinned squirrel, and if I enjoyed that, they'd find something else much worse that I didn't like. Like I'd enjoy doing that anyway. I interrupted her when she got to the part about peeling my lip up over my head and making me lick my ass and told her that I completely understood their stance and that I would never. ever. never. ever. look at her brother again. Steve and I are still friends now - many years later - but I still have a fear of many things because of that day at the pond and its aftermath. Rabid squirrels, Greek mythology, women named Joyce, and Scotland make me break out in a bloody sweat. And I don't believe Joyce knows that Steve and I are still in touch. If you see her, don't tell her.
Copyright 2009 liamsgrandma
