Anniversaries are supposed to be spent with, not away, from your loved one. But after an anniversary weekend in Portland, Oregon, I guess I can’t complain…too much. It was on this day, so many years ago, that I realized two of my dreams for the future: one, to see Macy Gray in concert and two, to fall in love. It was the first time I saw Macy, and my beau, in person. Neither of us, my beau and I that is, have looked back since.
One of the many endearing things about our relationship is that even though I can never remember the date or year we met, although I ask on a nearly monthly basis, he patiently tells me again and again. Thus the “so many years ago” reference above. I know this is the day, though, because I already received a Happy Anniversary email which I was supposed to sing to the tune of The William Tell Overture. I will demand a serenading when we check in this evening by phone.
For now I will relish in the recent memory of our weekend, basking in the turquoise decor of The Nines, visiting the Portland Art Museum to view the work of Mark Rothko only to be swept away instead by the haunting genius of John Frame’s The Tale of the Crippled Boy, stumbling upon an open air swing dance exhibition, ogling at the mind-boggling wrap-around line of patrons waiting for their Sunday morning Voodoo donuts, sharing a red ale at The Rogue (where we also picked up a big pink bottle of their Voodoo Bacon Maple Ale), delighting in the decadent offerings of Cupcake Jones, walking and browsing and people watching in the Pearl District, trying on eyeliners and lipsticks at every girls’ candy store, Sephora, and picking out my first pair of non-prescription designer sunglasses in preparation for Lasik surgery. Well, I did the last two and he tried to hide any impatience while offering a best guess when called upon to express an opinion.
And today, we are still as happy, even more so, than we were ever so many years ago.
“And just how many years ago from today?” I ask again after he serenades me to the tune of The William Tell Overture without any prompting.
“How many years ago from today what?” he teases.
“You know, for how many years ago from today have we been together?” I inquire sweetly.
“Less than ten, more than eight,” he indulges, sighing in what I know is mock exasperation.
“Do you still have that concert ticket stub?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Indeed he does.