Notes From an Old Man: On Being 27 Years Married

Today we’ve been married 27 years, using the date of our “commitment” ceremony, which was the only option available to us at the time—and our tenth (legal) wedding anniversary, thanks to the Pennsylvania state legislature who granted us the right to marry a year before SCOTUS declared in the landmark Obergefell v. Hodges decision which ruled that the fundamental right to marry is guaranteed to same-sex couples by both the Due Process Clause and the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment of the Constitution.

From the time I was 12 years old, I knew I would marry a boy. I didn’t have a plan or a road map but, even then, I had a vision and no doubt that one day I would.

June 28, which is the date of both our commitment ceremony and legal marriage, is also the anniversary of the Stonewall rebellion which kicked off the modern-day gay rights movement. We didn’t choose that date originally for its historical significance, rather it was a practical decision; we didn’t want to wait until Fall and at that point we lived in a one-bedroom floor-through on the third floor of an ancient Germanton Victorian owned by a pair of elderly lesbians. We didn’t have central air, or even window units, so we knew that getting married at home at the end of June was the only possible date available if we wanted to avoid people passing out from heat exhaustion mid-ceremony.

Over 27 years, we’ve built a home and an art collection together; we’ve supported each other through the loss of his grandparents, my parents and beloved Aunt Terpe; we’ve rescued six dogs and bid farewell to four; we’ve planted flowers and trees and welcomed two nephews.

I read about people claiming they are marrying their best friend and talk of soulmates and am confused. My husband isn’t my best friend, and I don’t think he should be—he doesn’t need to know every thought in my head; there are things he does that annoy me, but mentioning it would serve what purpose, exactly? A best friend loves you unconditionally—a spouse’s love—at least in my opinion—is dependent on your treating your spouse well, not hurting them, being your best version of yourself. It’s not a 50/50 partnership: sometimes its 60/40, sometimes 90/10. You’re together to support each other and carry the other when they need to be carried—you’re not together to keep score. Marriage requires constant grace and space.

Early on in our relationship, Stanley took me to look at a loft that was for sale. As we left, he asked, “So what did you think?”

“Oh, honey,” I said, “I think I need walls and doors.”

We now live in a 3-story, 5-bedroom house; we each have our own bathroom. Sometimes I look at couples who are content always be in each other’s company and I view them with a bit of confusion (and yes, if I’m honest, envy) but we are not those people. Stanley needs two hours of alone time in the morning to wake up and adjust to being a human in a world full of annoying humans. At night, after he and the dogs are in bed, I need a half-hour to decompress and revel in the fact that no one needs anything from me. I read, sometimes I just sit on the toilet in my bathroom and watch the trees swaying in the breeze, reveling in being still, unneeded.

The other week I came across an article profiling a young man who wanders around and interviews couples asking them to name three things they love about each other. Apparently, this has made him a viral sensation or a love “influencer”—I forget which exactly, but I’ve decided to answer those questions about Stanley within this essay (yeah, I know, copycat syndrome—is that a thing? Or have I just been watching too much CSI?)

So here goes: Three things I love about Stanley…

The other week, we noticed a robin struggling to build a nest on the ledge of the transom window above our back door. The problem was the ledge is very narrow so the nest kept falling to the ground whenever we opened the door. She would start over each morning. One day, Stanley gathered twigs and built a wider platform for the nest. She promptly built a nest. Three days later the nest contained three bright blue eggs.

Early on during the pandemic, while walking the dogs one night, Stanley came across a young woman who asked for directions to Germantown to which she was walking. He came home worried about her walking alone at night, without a mask. He quickly sewed a mask for her, and we jumped in his car and drove off to find her. We didn’t, but his concern for a young stranger he didn’t know and willingness to help reminded me of who he was and why I married him.

When my first dog Channing died, I was devastated; the grief was impossible. He never once suggested we get another dog, despite my obvious loneliness, innately understanding that suggesting I could replace Channing like a lost watch was absolutely the wrong thing to do.

When I think about young people and their endless blather about their “love language,” it occurs to me that the language I need to be spoken to in is not the language of gifts or endless attention but rather kindness to others, thoughtfulness.

Happy anniversary Stanley, my love.