I seriously never thought I was going to get married. Even in my early twenties, in the beginning of being of “marriageable age,” with my whole life ahead of me, I didn’t think I would ever be married. I saw people, who seemed impossibly young, pair off and tie the knot. I grew up in a small town, and twenty years ago, no one batted an eye at youthful marriages. It was encouraged. You were supposed to find the person to spend the rest of your life with and hurry up and marry them and settle down.
This seemed ill advised to me. I didn’t even know or like myself enough to spend the rest of my life with me, never mind some other person. I bounced around colleges, spent a summer at the Grand Canyon, and then moved to Boston when I was 21. I spent my twenties with long spells without relationships, and parades of broken relationships with fixer-upper losers.
So it was reasonable for me to assume I wasn’t ever going to get married. And I was fine with that. Perhaps it was an instance of hoping for it, but doubting it would ever happen, so I convinced myself I didn’t want it. It’s a handy skill.
Ultimately, I never felt any pressure. I was happy being independant. Within the span of eight years, I moved to Santa Barbara. I moved to Los Angeles. I moved to Hawaii. I moved to Oregon. When I arrived in Portland, I was 35.
Three weeks after I got here, I met Dave. Dave never thought he was going to get married either. We were remarkably compatible that way.
One of the sweetest things Dave has ever said to me, was “I wish I met you twenty years ago, so I could have spent more time with you.”
I love this man.
Happy anniversary, muffin.