You’d think I’d know the date of my wedding, but apparently you’d be wrong. As I write these words, my best guess is that Rosie and I have been married for about five years, maybe six. I figure the wedding was in June (July?) 2020 or maybe 2019. Still, I’m not carving this column on stone tablets, so obviously I could have verified and corrected that date before publication and you, dear reader, would be none the wiser. Many writers come off as more erudite than they actually are by using words like “erudite” and checking and correcting their facts. I try not to stoop to such tactics
FYI, Rosie just wandered in and I did check, just to see how far off I was. Pretty far. We’ve been married for nine years. The wedding was in 2016, not 2018 or 2019. “July 7th or July 9th,” Rosie said. So she wasn’t sure of the exact date either. She was much closer than I was, but then, she’s never had a brain tumor.
I mention my brain tumor not just as a blatant play for sympathy, but also as a public service. Say you forget the date of the Fourth of July, or to put on your pants before answering the door. (Why is it always the pastor’s wife when that happens?) Just deftly slip your brain tumor into the conversation, and you’re no longer an idiot (or an exhibitionist), you’re a victim. A brain tumor is the perfect all-purpose excuse. You really should consider getting one.
The aftereffects of my particular brain tumor also bring the past crowding around me more closely and more vividly. Which is wonderful. I tend to focus on the present and the future. So this keeps me more connected with the most memorable events behind me. Our wedding actually feels to me like it happened a year or two ago. It’s that vivid. (I guessed five or six, trying to compensate for my time-shortening brain.)
And again, even Rosie wasn’t sure if our wedding was July 7 or July 9. It was one of the best days of our lives. Unforgettable. But not unique. One more step in an adventure that started the day we met.
That was on a Thanksgiving, we’re sure of that, at least. By that evening — a very romantic, werewolves-of-London-type foggy night — I’d already decided that Rosie was much too good for the bass player she was with. The woman rated at least a lead singer. Or, preferably, me, someone with barely enough musical talent to play the radio. Over the years, Rosie has come to believe I have other, compensating qualities, though I’ve never been quite sure what she thinks they are.
Between that Thanksgiving and the wedding were any number of events worthy of anniversaries. Any number of days we’ll never forget, even if we haven’t memorialized the dates. Maybe I should remember the date of the wedding as the pinnacle of the whole shebang. But the shebang isn’t over and I think we both believe the pinnacle is still to come.
So no, I didn’t know my wedding date. But apparently I’ve been married to this extraordinary woman for around nine years, lived with her for over 30, and loved her every single day since very shortly after I first set eyes on her. My plan is to love her until I die in her arms. I don’t need to know that date either.
