A Great Love Story
In 1997 we were 29 and 34, living paycheck to paycheck. Neither of us had health benefits. In the previous 10 years, I had only ever needed to go to Planned Parenthood for Pap smears. We were recently graduated Art students, at least I was. He had dropped out of an MFA to join the Police Department. We had enough credit card debt to be noticeable. We were engaged, because we were living together, and really because my mother wanted it that way, not because we loved each other, though we did. We accelerated our wedding date because of healthcare and a millennial apocalypse.
My parents being in a cult were preparing for Y2K and threatened that if I did not rejoin, I would be on my own in the apocalypse. Having been raised in that cult, I guess like many women, part of me saw marriage as a barrier to my parents’ apocalypse. Certainly, being married to a Police officer also offered an added barrier. Was my fear real? I had no fear of Y2K, of my parents’ cult, of my parents, those fears were very real.
He asked me in the kitchen of my group apartment on 18th Street above the Betsy Johnson. We were discussing the issue of our parents’ opinion of our moving in together. I did not want to care; we really were too old to care. And then he said after opening and shutting the refrigerator, as I was making spaghetti.
“Well, you know how I feel about you.”
And then something about how we could get engaged. And I thought, like the main character in, The Big Fish, when seeing how he “goes.”
“Oh, so that’s how I go.” Or something like that. Don’t quote me.
I thought, “Oh so that’s how this happens.”
Yes, long ago I loved fairy tales and dreamed of weddings and dresses, mostly the dresses. Okay, I confess I have post-marriage been known to binge-watch, “Say Yes to the Dress.” The proposal was never really part of any of my calculations. But that was long ago, back when I believed in such things, and my favorite book was The Princess Bride until it was replaced and ruined by the movie. All the best parts are in the writing and didn’t make the screenplay. I was romantically cynical back then, suckered by a broken fourth wall of writing, imagining I could achieve true love outside of absurdity.
By the time, he proposed in the kitchen of that apartment, I did not have dreams about proposals, I was a pragmatist. Honestly, I don’t even remember my dreams about a wedding. I think I may have wanted to get married on the beach. None of that was on the table. We were a year into our respective Art programs marriage would come later.
Honestly moving in together was hard enough. I had wanted a two-bedroom. I liked my own space. That was off the table financially and not part of his calculation. I cried, knowing that was the last time I would live by myself. Later when we bought a house, he would make up one room as my studio. He put homasote on the walls and for a while it was mine and then it became my sons’.
So, 24 years ago we decided it was time. It made sense. He was in the Police Force; I should get on his benefits. We did a risk assessment. And so, we looked into dates. City hall was booked. In the yellow pages, yes this was before the internet, we found the Yerkes Bridal Salon. And when we found it, I cried. There it was the truth again. This was how it would be, not like a great love story in a novel. We would stand before a judge reading, a bad poem, in a kitschy bridal salon, next to a Sunoco gas station.
I wore a vintage sequin and wool dress from the local ORT that I paid 75$ for and he wore his interview suit and a new hat bought on South St. Our photographers were our witnesses. We did not like a fuss, did not want the attention, and couldn’t afford it emotionally or financially. We eloped, in the true sense of the word. We ran away, and absconded, defying social duties and restraints. And we did it, an artist and an officer, we conceded to the transaction and ran from our families and the tradition.
24 years later, with my husband gone for many months at a time, my house is my own, more often than I like. Though sometimes I like it more than not. Thus familial traditions are still far from our norm.
And here we are, with him just recovering from COVID-19, halfway around the world in the midst of a pandemic. Which I have weathered for the most part as a single mom, who could afford to stay at home, only because of the specific distance and caliber of my husband’s job.
“Happy anniversary.” He said on the chat.
“Happy anniversary, “I responded.
“Don’t say it like that.” He sighed. I must have been looking sad, resigned, or something like that.
After our call I indulge in some good homemade tears; a recipe of longing, self-pity, loneliness, and something else. Because as far as we have come, with all the years that we have endured, we both know the norms we broke by eloping were the easy ones. There is always that something else.
The norms we were most earnest to escape; our legacies, of family, love, and marriage all live inside us still and so our work is never done.
In a recent article I read, that often long-distance relationships can go astray as lovers can tend to idealize one another or the relationship. The story can become more powerful than the reality.
This is the love story; I will tell you today.
24 years ago, on February 1st, it snowed lightly in Philadelphia. My husband and I were married at the Yerkes Bridal salon, next to the Sunoco station. It was not the best day of my life, and it was certainly not the worst, but it was, “A Day.” We then drove down to Cape May and stayed in a bed and breakfast for a week-end honeymoon.
My dear P. I have loved you for so many years that there are no years without you. Even that is not enough.
