Mr. D and I went away last weekend for our anniversary. I had wanted to take a cheap Frontier flight to somewhere fun and different; he wanted to drive to a destination within a four-hour radius. We settled on the Finger Lakes in Upstate New York, and it was perfection.
It’s taken me a while to sit down and try and write about our weekend, and I still don’t know where to start. Perhaps I’d do best to follow the advice from Alice in Wonderland: “Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end. Then stop.”
In the beginning, there was Mr. D and me, fighting, crying, praying to the heavens. We went on that awful date in October, back when we weren’t remotely on the same page. That night, I admired the moon while he paid more attention to a Domino’s Pizza sign. Four days later, I fasted for his health and well-being, an early anniversary present that embraced my Hindu roots, while he proceeded to get stoned on the couch.
We fought, we made up. We had passionate sex and he stopped smoking pot, and soon enough, things were back to normal. Not bad normal, but better normal. Happy, like we usually are, but improved, like I had hoped we could be. On Nov. 8, as my parents celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary, we smoked a bowl in their driveway and then walked around the fire in a traditional Hindu wedding ceremony, my mom playing high priestess as our girls lobbed us with handfuls of rice.
Three days later, I woke up and Mr. D read me the most incredible anniversary poem, and I showed him my blog post (and just like our wedding vows, he outdid me again!). I cried, we kissed, and then packed our bags. As I was running around the house, Big A wished on an eyelash. “I think it’s going to come true,” she said. Before I could tell her not to say it out loud, she climbed into my arms and whispered, “I wished for you and daddy to have a good anniversary.”