The Big 3-0

What can I say, she loves me. As far-fetched as it appears, Mrs. Laz has officially stuck with me -- off and on -- for 30 years now. That’s a lot of thin and not too much thick and a lot of oysters without too many pearls. No sense questioning her sanity because a reasonable evaluation of the facts does not support her 30-year commitment to me. In fact, if we’re talking about committing, it should be in the context of rubber walls and straight jackets for at least one of us.

Back in 1978, under the evening sky and low-flying aircraft we got hitched. Neither of us was old enough to shave back then, but we thought we were and we thought we had the maturity to endure. And despite the fact that we probably we’re too young and had too much confidence in our version of maturity we strung 30 years of marriage together. Just chalk it up to the fact that we grew into adulthood together and, for some reason, it just worked.

I was a little caught off guard by this anniversary because it’s not a “Silver” or a “Gold” or even a “Platinum” wedding anniversary. I am not even sure what gift category this falls under, although I guessed, incorrectly I am told, that it is aluminum foil. And with my well-stated aversion to “magic numbers,” I just figured it was no different than 29 years. Turns out, I was wrong.

To get out of my lack of proper preparation for this marriage milestone, I tried to dazzle her with my typical facts and figures. I told her that we have slept through one-third of our marriage, so that brings us down to 20 years. Then we have to take away the years she didn’t like me very much plus subtract the number of days I have been on the road. I think the math brings us down to about 14 years. Please don’t tell me that a 14-year anniversary deserves special notice.

This year’s anniversary has turned out to have a similar pattern as many other anniversaries and birthdays. She is at home and I am elsewhere, so we are celebrating our anniversary in multiple time zones and on different continents. Which reminds me (at the wrong time, as usual) of an old Woody Allen joke when he explains he is divorcing his wife. It was suggested that he and his wife take a vacation or get divorced. After some thought, he decides on the divorce by figuring a vacation is over in two weeks, but a divorce is something you always have. Maybe Mrs. Laz will skip over that last segment.

Lord knows I don’t know what she sees in me but she means the world to me. Happy anniversary from the land of dust and hairy women.