Today is our 25th wedding anniversary.
He didn’t mention it. Not at all. No, “Happy Anniversary.” No, “Would you like to go out to dinner?” Not even a cheesy card.
And, honestly, I didn’t mention it either. I wanted to know if it meant enough to him to say anything, do anything.
Or maybe I’m being unfair.
Maybe two dozen roses will be delivered to my office. Maybe a singing telegram will invite me to dine with him. It’s early in the day yet as I write this.
Some other anniversaries stand out in my mind.
There was the one not too many years after we were married, our 5th anniversary, that we went back to the place where we went for our honeymoon. I thought that was sweet and romantic. I was probably the one who planned it, but I don’t remember specifically. What I do remember is that all he wanted to do was watch t.v. Not the hot tub. Not make love. Watch t.v. Don’t I feel special.
And our 10th anniversary. Church camp-out. Yes. That’s right. Our church had a family camp-out planned, so he wanted to go to that. You know, tents, cooking over the fire. That kind of camping. Now, I like camping well enough. That wasn’t the problem. We had two children by that time. The older one would have been seven and the younger one three. And we didn’t have a big tent. We had two 2-man tents. Can you see where this is going? We each shared a tent with a child. I do have to admit that the next week-end we did go away, just the two of us. But it still hurt somehow that on my 10th wedding anniversary, I was by myself in the middle of a crowd.
Most anniversaries we have just gone out to dinner. Sometimes we will go someplace first and then go out to dinner.
One of the better anniversary dinners that I remember was the one eight years ago. It was right before we moved across the country. We went to my favorite restaurant, and, because we were planning the move, there was a lot to talk about. So it ended up being a nice evening.
Two years ago, we went away for a couple nights. I determined with all my might to be as pleasant and as agreeable as I possibly could, no matter what he said or did. He had a nice time. And it was o.k. for me, but it also was a really big strain to have to try so hard to have a good time. I honestly was glad when it was over.
The day before our anniversary last year, I asked him to move out. He refused. A couple of times the past year I have mentioned it again, but not for several months.
So I can kinda understand him not asking me out or anything this year. But it still does hurt.
Part of me is o.k. with it, because it is what it is.
But part of me wants to kick and scream and cry with the pain of feeling unloved, the pain of an empty, hurtful marriage, the pain of dying dreams.