John and I took a long time to find each other. I was 39, with a long, difficult, ultimately very sad marriage behind me and three teenagers I was raising on my own. John was 44, twice-divorced, childless, a confirmed, never-going-to-marry-again motocycle-racing bachelor. That’s when we met. We agreed on our first date that neither of us was looking for a relationship. Dinner, a movie, maybe some meaningless sex….
That date was, according to my mathematically-minded husband, exactly six and one-third years ago today. We’re so happy we were wrong about marriage. And we realized it pretty quickly: We were (though it horrifies me to think of it now) engaged by week six and married within seven months. I think we both appreciate marriage more because we know how lonely the wrong one can feel—and how affirming the right one is.
I particularly love this photo because it shows our personalities and our differences. I’m a little wild and rowdy. John, for all his risky hobbies, is shy and logical and very much the Southern gentleman. It works.