Thirty years ago today, on a sunny Saturday in upstate NY, the first Saturday without rain in six weeks… Mr. Boyfriend became Mr. Spouse. Poof…Just. Like. That. Said, “I do”,  gave me a ring, signed some papers and hitched his star to mine.

And vice versa.

The next day we hopped in the Rabbit and headed out to northern California. Back to Mr. Spouse’s job. Back to the place I went to school.

A few days later, somewhere in Colorado, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. A big one. Driving cross country in Volkswagen packed with everything I owned (except the dogs who would fly out later), looking for all the world like the 80’s version of the Joads, was NOT my idea of a honeymoon.

It was only the thought of my maid of honor slapping me silly that kept me heading west.

I’m glad I did. 

Thirty years. Like any long term relationship there’s been up and downs. Growing pains. Growing together. Over the years we’ve lost four parents, one brother, several friends and too many dogs and cats. We’ve birthed two children, one who’s gone on to have his own. We’ve been through the terrible twos, the teen years and hormonal hell on both ends.

We’ve been through Little League. And Iraq.

Basketball. And Berkeley.

Remodeled houses, three of ’em. Built another from the ground up. And stayed together through construction madness. Which was nothing, really…

Because we’ve built a life together. Layers and layers and textures of life.

This one’s for you, Mr. Spouse. Happy Anniversary!