Rings, and things

Four years. Four years. That's how long we're in high school. Or college. Or how long a president can be in office before having to run for reelection. Seems like there is lots in life measured in four year increments. And as of 4:40 or so today, it's the magnitude of our marriage.

We almost didn't make it. On our first anniversary, we came thisclose to getting divorced. No, really. For my gift, Kyle gave me a gel wrist rest for my computer. I share this story now with such a silly smile, but at the time, I was, to put it lightly, furious. Where was the blue box, the barrage of blossoms, the pert pearls, those things that you are supposed to get when someone wants to show you their love? I wanted those things, because I'd somehow surmised that my value to Kyle had a clear correlation to the value of the things he'd buy for me, and I'd convinced myself that the more he'd spent, the better he could care for me. I needed them, to know our marriage was right.

This year, when Kyle and I were making plans for our anniversary (as you read this, we're bound by boat for a two-day tech-free getaway to Monhegan Island) and discussing our expectations for gift-giving, I suggested we set a $20 spending limit (suffice to say the gel wrist pad would have easily limboed below that line) because really, I didn't even want a gift. And as the words left my mouth as we walked down the beach, I realized I hadn't said them as show, but that I'd really, truly meant them.

What one thing could top waking up every.single.day to a cappuccino by the bed, patterned with that perfect pinch of crushed cinnamon, or the freshly-blended smoothie sitting in wait in the refrigerator each morning, always with a colorful bendy straw already inserted? What one thing would spoil me more than having to have made just seven trips to the gas station in the past year, because my tank is always filled, as is my sock drawer, the dog food bowls, the wine rack but not the garbage cans? What one thing would make me feel as valued as having read out loud to me the thank-you notes I receive from clients, because my husband wants to make sure I really stop and hear them?

That's not to say I don't adore shiny things. Because do I ever (and anything from Cole Haan)! But day by day for the last 1,460 of them, Kyle has given me every thing I need to truly believe I am beloved: smiles and smoothies and safety and sincerity and smooches and sense of self and shennigans and seriousness and strength and serenity and stability and simplicity and straws that bend and when I make him unabashedly laugh, well, it shuts up that cynical side of me that sometimes whispers wonders of worry about whether this great gig of contented life is just about up and makes me feel like I am the sexiest, smartest, awesomiest, wittiest woman in the whole wide world.

He didn't buy me that gel wrist pad to show me he loved me. He already knew it and had I known then what I do now, I would have too. He bought it for me because I'd complained of "carpal tunnel" (severe self diagnosis is a specialty of mine) brought about by typing too many loquacious grad school papers and editing wedding images by the thousands each week. He'd heard me, and he'd taken me seriously and he cares for me so deeply that he just wanted to help me- to make it all better. Three years later, I get that.

And I think we're starting to get this whole marriage thing and you know what, it's pretty damn fun. Except when it's not because something sad happens like loosing your first grandparent within a month of each other and then instead of laughing together, you're mourning together, but that's ok, because it's shared and that makes it somehow safe and if you don't want to speak about your sorrow because you don't want to cry again in front of everyone, you don't have to because you don't need to because the other person already knows anyway. Those are the moments when marriage seems so seamless and you couldn't imagine wanting a better gift than maintaining eye contact.

Kyle's parents sent us an anniversary card in which they noted "It's been fun to watch you enjoy life together" and it made us both so proud of what we have built these past four years. And so, for this anniversary, I am giving Kyle a coffee cup that looks like it's made of paper but it's really made of porcelain. Not because it's what I want to give him or because I think he needs it. But because he asked for it and sometimes it really is just that simple (even though I always try to complicate things). And because it's silly. And because it cost exactly $19.95. And because our marriage isn't predicated on a present whether paper or porcelain or platinum but on our daily practice, and so in that sense, it really doesn't matter what I get for him, as long as I give him me.

I do.