My husband and I are celebrating our 50th wedding anniversary. Our children hosted a lovely party at our home with guests we were delighted to see.
When I am asked what’s our secret, I invariably joke, “It’s laziness. Neither of us wants to do the work necessary to start all over again!” But the truth is that neither of us can imagine being with anyone else. Neither of us is the perfect mate; that’s for sure. I’m bossy and opinionated; he’s easy-going and amenable. He’s a curmudgeon (“Get off my lawn!”) when he needs to be; I’m a marshmallow, more often than I’d like to admit. I’m too ready to say “Yes” when I really don’t want to; he’s too willing to make “No” the final word. Together we make a great match.
One of my friends remembers asking each of us without the other knowing, “Who makes the decisions in your relationship?”
She says she was surprised that we both said exactly the same thing: “Sometimes it’s me; sometimes it isn’t.” The fact is that we act as brakes on one another. If I come up with a hair-brained scheme—say “Let’s buy a beach house!”—he pulls me into reality. If he says, “Let’s take that 120-day cruise!”—I count the ways that’s not a good idea.
Marriage is work–marriage is fun—marriage is what has sustained both of us for 50 years. My husband is my best friend, my biggest defender, and my most enthusiastic cheerleader. I often wonder how it is that the daughter of a coal miner who lived in rural Pennsylvania found happiness with the grandson of the most important vaudeville booker in Philadelphia. But she did!