I have been married 27 years. Twenty seven freaking years. So has my husband, as it turns out. I hasten to assure you that we were married out of the cradle. John was still in school when he proposed. University, not high school. We were the first people to get married out of all of our friends, who were also still in school, and therefore poor, and therefore not in a position to get us nice gifts. We had terrible gifts. Three guys went in on a toaster, to give you an idea.
27 is not a landmark year, unless you’re a tragic rock star, so had nothing planned. I was kind of hoping John had something up his sleeve, but he did not, as he rightfully assumed that his wife, the control freak micro-manager, would have it in the bag. I did not. No restaurant reservations, no tee times booked, nothing. We play golf and go out for dinner all the time, so I couldn’t muster enough enthusiasm to make that happen. “What DO you want to do?”, asked Ronan, who, at 14, thinks every occasion must be marked by some sort of gesture. “I want to so see Gravity”, I said, which was true. So that’s what we did, all three of us. We went to see Gravity in IMAX, and then we went home and cooked a steak dinner. And lived happily after. Oh, and I got roses. Roses are pink, violets are blue, Gravity was awesome, and so are you.