Antiversary

Seventeen years ago, we were freaking out. We were slated to get married on the 10th. His parents were driving down from The Great White North, and weren’t entirely 100% certain they were going to make it in time. After two years of doing funky colors in my bathroom, I needed to have my hair professionally colored; we didn’t want to shock his family too much with my waist length, bright as fuck pink hair. It was their first time meeting me.

But then, we were married. Happily ever after.

Over decade later, we’d had our share of struggles. Family deaths, pet deaths. Job losses, vehicle losses. We bought a house, and all the struggles that entails.

But every August, we made a point to celebrate our anniversary. One year, he surprised me by taking the day off, pretending to go to work, and surprising me 15 minutes later with a dozen roses. Once, he booked a night at a hotel so I could take a bubble bath, as our bathroom only had a shower stall. It didn’t matter what we were dealing with, we tried to make it special. Even in 2016, less than a month after I discovered his infidelity. I broke down and cried, wondering if it was worth it to celebrate it. If you look at the pictures from that time, you can see through the forced smile just how broken I am.

We’ve tried harder, over the last couple of years since then, to celebrate the two of us and what we had together. The smiles are genuine.

I’m not sure what’s happening this weekend. I have a 3-day weekend and I want nothing more than to spend it in a pot-fueled haze and forget everything – the bad times and the good – for a couple of days.

It’s the antiversary.