Twenty-five years ago today, I married my dear husband Bill.

I am bummed that this milestone anniversary cannot be celebrated to any extent thanks to a pandemic. 

I mean, come on, 25 years! 

We got married in a leap year, and I offered to get married on 2/29 so that he would only be held accountable for remembering our anniversary every 4 years, but he declined, opting, instead to be on the hook every year. 

Not that we ever did a lot for our anniversary.  One year, we both forgot until at breakfast I opened a card from my sister Linda and realized, oh shit, it’s our anniversary.  Happily, we’re the kind of couple that finds that incredibly funny.  Nothing like getting old and forgetful together!

I was a mess on our wedding day. 

First, we decided to “elope”.  Good wishes and all that for people who have big weddings, but neither of us was up for all of that.  We checked in with family and let them know that they were not going to be invited to a wedding (much to my mom’s relief – seriously, she was so happy not to have to come all the way to California for a wedding).  Maybe if we were down in LA where I had tons of friends to celebrate with, but I was freshly moved to San Jose and we had enough going on in our lives without having to try to pull together a wedding.

So off we went to Atwater, California to the Chapel of the Bells, with an appointment to get married. 

We checked into a not-posh-at-all motel, but it had the added charm of being right next to the railroad tracks – which thrilled my husband-to-be no end and didn’t bother me a bit.  (We spent our wedding night constantly getting up to watch the trains go by.)

That’s when I realized I had forgotten my wedding outfit back in San Jose.  Here come the tears, as I wailed, “I didn’t want much, but I didn’t want to get married in jeans.” 

Poor Bill.

So we pull out the yellow pages and find there is a Dress Barn in town, which carries fat lady clothes!  Whew.  We find the Dress Barn and I find a great outfit – and it’s on sale!  Kismet.

We go to the Chapel of the Bells and are greeted by a big blousy redhead – the Rev. Judy (or something like that). 

And she marries us.

During the ceremony, I start to cry – no, I start blubbering.  I am a red-nosed, red-eyed, snotty mess.  (Remember, this is before I got on meds and during the time that a cat commercial could make me sob uncontrollably.) 

Poor Bill.

And yet, he said “I do.”

You got to admire this man’s bravery. 

We filled out and signed the paperwork. 

We were married.

And then, per their tradition, we rang the bell at the Chapel of the Bells.

Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls …

And here we are 25 years later.  Let the adventure continue …