Cigarette Feather Dusters and Bedsheet Brides

33 years ago, I woke up to the day for which I had been dreaming and rehearsing since I was a little girl. Bedsheets turned into trains worthy of royalty and imaginary beaus intermingled with perpetual Barbie and Ken weddings that would make Elizabeth Taylor look matrimonially monogamous were the things of my childhood day dreams and aspirations. I'm sure I also wanted to become a nurse when I was 5, but more than anything else, I wanted to be a bride!

And then I grew up, went away to college and beyond and through broken hearts and shattered dreams, began to live a life that was far from those simple and innocent childhood days. But I never let go of the dream to find my Prince Charming and wander down the aisle with more fabric dragging behind me than Princess Di. I had however given up my dream of becoming a nurse because unbeknown to me at 5, one would need to not run away and faint at the sight of blood to realize that aspiration.

I discovered that sometimes God doesn't work through little diapered cupids to get us to our romantic destinations but instead sends someone whose name tag reads "Geraldine" and wears a blue smock to work out His plans. Geraldine was more than a co-worker at the local drugstore where I had worked since turning 16. She proudly proclaimed when I returned after college graduation with no career path yet realized, that she was going to find me a husband instead. And no male who wandered through the electric doors of that People's Drugstore in 1986 was safe from her matchmaking skills.

There were a few dates here and there but between working 40 hours then driving round trip each night for 2 more hours to classes to begin pursuing a masters degree, there wasn't much left in the day to even think about following suit with the friends beginning to enter into matrimony bliss much less go out on a date with the next eligible bachelor Geraldine would lure my way from any number of sales reps she could corner on her daily hunt.

One particular guy Geraldine took a liking to seemed to be behind the sales counter more than others. He carried a feather duster, which looking back now should have been a huge attractant from where this eventual stay-at-home mom turned housewife sat, but at 22 years of age, it just seemed a tad bit odd to me.

For some reason Geraldine honed in hard on him. Chiding me that I should go have lunch with him amongst other comments that both annoyed me and caused me to go red in the face, I dodged any attempts he made at getting my phone number. Truly, after finding myself back in my parents' home two months post college graduation, the only thing I was interested in was finding a job worthy of my college degree somewhere far from my roots and leaving behind the chronic question from my parents of "when will you be home tonight?" I still really don't see how failure to launch willingly happens so much these days.

As fate would have it, I didn't stick around my small childhood hometown for long. An opportunity with the same drugstore chain where I had worked throughout high school and every college summer and holiday break had an opening for an investigator in DC and my hometown boss pushed hard to get this newly criminal justice and psychology degreed girl launched to the big city. All I can say is thank the Lord that it worked!

A couple of days before I left my hometown place of daydreams for a big city dream job (hey, hopping out of cars in the dark of night to catch sticky fingered employees seemed pretty dreamy back then, sorta like a drugstore James Bond kinda thing) I finally gave in and agreed to go have dinner with the feather duster carrying sales rep from Philip Morris USA. Never one to turn down free food, it seemed a harmless way to scamper my way out of one of the last nights I would have to spend still living the derailed independent post college life from my childhood bedroom on Hillcrest Drive.

Walking down the sidewalk where many a date had walked me back to the front door minutes before curfew over the years, I turned to him and asked him his last name. Suddenly Andy the Marlboro guy felt a little too vague as I got into his car and headed to Chincoteague for dinner. But I snickered as I walked down the sidewalk, thinking how my parents in years past would have never let me go on a date with some random dude I had no clue his last name.

Not only did I learn his last name that evening, but over the next 3 years he and I would keep the interstate burned up between DC and Va Beach until that poorly paying dream job of mine in the big city got traded for another one at the beach, where I would spend my days and nights chasing wayward felons around the Norfolk area. Yeah, it took me a while to finally realize that some dream jobs are actually nightmares in disguise that only the most stubborn girls pursue once told they can't possibly make a difference in those vocations. The literal jury is probably still out on the degree of difference I may or may not have made. But the rest is history.

A death threat and a ring on the finger later, my prince would finally rescue me to the mountains of West Virginia as his career began to take off to places I never dreamed of living and a life I never even thought possible back in the days of dragging my makeshift designer bedsheet bridal gown around my parents' dusty, hot attic. A new name and address not only gave me a means to disappear from an absconded lunatic, unhappy with his previous case manager, but also the promise of a happily ever after with the blond headed guy who bided his time with his feather duster back in the cartons of Marlboros until I gave him the time of day and granted Geraldine a successful retirement from her self-designated matchmaker post.

But you see, the rest really isn't history. Because from that side of single, it all looks like lace and orchids and gifts tied up with elaborate ribbons--champagne toasts and twirling in the most expensive dress you'll ever wear, surrounded by people you love and who love you. And smiling until your face simply hurts, the time it takes to walk down the aisle, hoping your train stays perfectly fanned out behind you, until the last dance is danced and the final handful of birdseed has been pelted your way, it is over in what later feels like minutes. Years of daydreams, months of planning and dreaming--it all culminates in the realization that it's now a marriage of two after leaving the 200 guests on the birdseed covered sidewalk.

With a divorce rate just under 50%, it stands to reason that marriage just might be hard. For those who have yet to dip their toe in the matrimony waters or who are still searching for their Prince or Princess Charming, it might seem like a monumental gamble to even consider joining forces with another, knowing you have just as much chance of pleading your irreconcilable differences as you do professing your never-ending love unto death do you part. So why gamble?

To be perfectly honest, if there had been a trailer for the docudrama called "Sweetpea and Andy" I may have opted to move on to the next Rotten Tomatoes recommended flick. I mean, who wants more tears than laughs at times? Comedies are much more fun than storylines that leave you heaving for breaths in between sobs. Let's be honest here, those of us who have lived a considerable amount of time this side of Paradise full well know that the joyous occasion of a wedding most assuredly isn't an accurate trailer for the nitty, gritty long running series called married life, even if your Prince Charming has sweetly nicknamed you after the sweetest smelling weed growing along the roadside.

But what keeps those of us on the other side of divorce court when the other half have stopped fighting to make it work? Don't get me wrong, I know there are people escaping abuse and cheating and a myriad of awful situations and I would never dream of accusing them of quitting. But beyond all the horrendous circumstances, there are many more couples who throw in the towel just because it got hard. Or because married life didn't live up to the hype of their unrealistic dreams and expectations. Or because something better came along. And while every couple will have similar temptations to run from the hard and toward what appears easier and better, what keeps the other half of the statistics towing the matrimonial line?

I don't have the answers for everyone else's enduring anniversary years, but I do know why today the once upon a time Marlboro man and I will celebrate 33 years. Endurance has more to do with all the I will's than the I won'ts. It has less to do with what appears to lie beyond the white picket fence and more with how we deal with the messy skeletons in our closets that aren't privy to public eyes. And that day 33 years ago that was a whole lotta fun? Sticking the years out proves that we acknowledge the journey is worth more than the initial spark.

Yes, marriage has everything to do with the sleepless nights, the screaming matches, the differing of opinions that lead to one or the other of us having to compromise our egos and forget about self in spite of the other one sometimes not fully appreciating or even deserving our toughest sacrifices. At the most elementary part of our union, it has everything to do with choice. We choose to stick it out, to honor each other and most importantly to never give up.

I woke up this morning knowing it was another monumental day--a day marking 33 years of choosing to stay connected to my person. However, murderous thoughts still crept in, but they didn't negate the fact that I chose to stick it out. Not many minutes after making the decision to get out of bed and begin another day, I didn't choose that my hubby would fly into the bathroom, exposing a hairy butt cheek, sincerely asking me to check for a tick. Yep, 33 years and this is my motivation to get up, refuse to retreat back into the covers and choose to live another day. This anniversary he's lucky I didn't put my overgrown, neglected runner's toenails up into the dark areas of his existence to clarify whether or not he was critter infested.

Clearly at year 33 we both have lost that wedding day beauty and charm. But at more years than I ever thought possible with one human being, I have to wonder, how does anyone expecting longevity of a relationship get through life without knowing you have to live through all the nooks and crannies, traversing the dark places because you simply expect and hope beyond hope that there's enough light on the other side to keep going?

Tonight I simply say, I just don't know. But what I do know is that those bed sheets that once were fit for a princess bride are now bunched up at the washer and dryer. And any fantasies I had attached to that princess bride wedding have surely dissipated into the reality of a lifetime with my soulmate that has taken us to the depths of despair but also brought us to places we never expected to soar.

And you know what? While most girls have a type, I'm pretty sure that maybe you guys have one too. Mine was tall, dark and handsome. What I ended up saying "I do" to was average height at best, blond but an irresistible bombshell on a slalom water ski. Just another proof that some of the best things in life are found in the twists and turns of the story plot we thought we knew best how to write. Boy, were we fooled. But at 3 decades plus 3 years, I wouldn't have it any other way. Ticks, hairy butt cheeks and piles of anything but royal bedsheets. This is life. And I choose to stick out the years.