Today is our sixteenth wedding anniversary, although I’ve known Mr. December for 25 years and we’ve been a couple for 23 of those. This was us perhaps two years into our relationship.
I’ve always known we would get married. I don’t know how I knew; let’s call it a flash of intuition. There was no way I could have known, the first time I saw him, that he was my other half.
Where I’m a writer, he’s fluent in math and numbers. I’m spontaneous; he’s a planner. I’m creative and handy, and he’s analytical. Even though we were both music majors in high school, our musical skills were complete opposites. He could sightread music very, very well but struggled when it came to ear training; I learned music very quickly by ear and aced every ear-training or dictation test, but had to work very hard at sightreading.
With our children, I excelled with babies and toddlers (which he decisively did not,) but with school-age kids he was (and is) a superstar. I fill our home with creativity and beauty while he creates structure. I love highway driving; he dislikes driving in general.
When we built our house, I did the creative design and chose finishing materials while Mr. December was delving into the technical specs of different kinds of insulation and cladding. We often played good cop/bad cop. Sometimes we still do.
More than once or twice, complete strangers have told us that we’re obviously a good team.
When we fight it’s doubly painful: not only am I fighting with my husband, but I can’t talk it over with my closest confidant, because he’s both of those things. We’ve weathered grief and frustration and illness together, and we’ve been blessed with tremendous sources of joy and comfort. We are tremendously fortunate and privileged.
It’s a bit of a running joke that I was certain of our future together long before he even asked me out. I once told him, “[girlfriend at the time] isn’t good for you. You deserve better — you deserve me.”
He looked at me regretfully and said, “But I love [girlfriend] and she’s the one I’m going to marry.”
“Over my dead body,” I muttered resolutely.
Eight years after that conversation, as we walked back up the aisle after the Chuppah (the Jewish wedding ceremony,) I looked at Mr. December, kissed him, and said, “I told you so.”
I still don’t understand how I could have known, but am I ever glad I did.
Happy Anniversary, my love!