I woke up this am and Facebook told me it was my 19th wedding anniversary. Except, well, you know, not really.
Christie and I had this conversation. We had it a bit in December, we had it a bit when I was back in March, we had it when she was hunting for photos for Andy’s service. I thought about it a bit more when I was hunting for a particular childhood photo of me to show J.
I look at my wedding photos now and I am struck. Christie was right. We were babies. I was 22 years old. I was younger than most of the men and women I’m taking graduate classes with. I got married when I had not finished my undergraduate degree. I knew nothing about anything and you could not tell me that.
There are no photos of just me on my wedding day, and in some ways I suppose that says a lot. I’m not sure that there was much of a just me on June 23, 2001. A nascent just me. A small portion of just me, but not one who understood that she was enough, that she was tiny but fierce.
We could say it was age, the age difference, perhaps even temperamental unsuitability that ruined my marriage. It was all of those things; all of those things would have been solved if I had a better idea of who just me was.
That baby on that day? She had no idea of who she would become.