I married my favorite husband 65 years ago today, on July 14, 1956.
No, really! We’re astonished, too! Not because we thought it wouldn’t last—I think we always thought it would, even in the worst of it—but because here we are, in our eighties, still alive, still kicking, still hugging and laughing and making sure the other one has taken pills.
I’m not here to brag today but it’s not normal to be married this long. We’re as nervous as anybody and can’t help wondering how long we can keep this going. I read this week that Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter just celebrated their 75th anniversary. Can we do it, too? We can try.
So today’s the day and we’ll celebrate with dinner out with our family tonight, but otherwise it’ll be just another day. Slogging along. Getting stuff done. But with more hugs. Stopping now and then for variations of “65 years! I mean…what???”
Two years ago I jumped the gun and wrote a piece in Huffington Post about our life together at 63 years and counting, so if you’re wondering how it happened, it’s all here: This is who we are and how we got here.
Congratulations accepted, of course, but really, all we did was live long enough. And love even longer.