Pulled out the wedding bunting for the first time this June.  And made impressive dinner for Marshall.  Sometimes, you really can pull these things off.

Even before I got married, or was even dating Marshall, I thought that anniversaries should be celebrated with some serious rejoicing, with the same sweat of relief that post-30 birthdays evoke.  Every year a marriage lasts is a miracle, right?  Why not make a big deal about it?  Why not make a racket?  That perennial joke in America about husbands forgetting their anniversaries and having to get their act together in a panicked half-hour on the way home from work … isn’t anything I want to be able to chuckle at nervously.  I would like that joke to be unapplicable to my life.

So I’ll plan, intentionally, to exclude that joke from our life.  I’ll start at the beginning, and let half the work of making anniversaries big events be mine.  It’s kind of weird, anyway, that wives—who traditionally care infinitely more about anniversaries than husbands—are (traditionally) (according to the joke) the ones chewing their nails all day, passive, hoping that the husband is planning something.

Another reason anniversaries are nice is that you get to celebrate yourself.  On other people’s birthdays and anniversaries you have to celebrate them, and on your birthday, you have to let other people celebrate you (i.e., it’s kind of weird to throw oneself a birthday party? I think this is true? I’ve always thought so?).  But on your anniversary, the flowers and chocolate you get are for you.  The game you play, walk you take, movie you see…is for you.  You awesome wife/husband, you.

If your anniversary is/was this summer, hurrah for you, and make a comment so I can congratulate you.  If your relationship is no more, you deserve congratulations of a different sort: You survived it.  You also are bad-ass.  (What a vast array of anniversaries there are.  All of them so weighted with significance.)