Recently, we attended a wedding that was very nearly perfect in every way. It was an outdoor wedding in a lovely setting, with the clear, blue sky above us (the oppressive Carolina heat notwithstanding). The minister’s word was inspiring, the flowers and gowns were lovely, the food was delicious and plentiful, and the band kept us dancing for hours.
The most perfect part of the affair, in my opinion, was the cake. Four layers of almond cake covered in a million tiny sugar flowers inspired by the lace on the bride’s gown. After the bride and groom had cut the first slice, and servers began feeding the eager guests, the caterer rescued the dainty top layer and whisked it away to the kitchen. I’m sure it was carefully wrapped and frozen so the happy couple can enjoy it a year from now.
This scene always reminds me of my own first anniversary.
We were married in January, and our first anniversary brought us a snow and ice storm the day before. But the storm would pass quickly, so we knew the roads would be passable and allow us to enjoy dinner at our favorite restaurant. For dessert, we would have year-old wedding cake. In preparation for our special day, I pulled the cake out of the freezer and set it on the kitchen table to thaw.
When I woke up early anniversary morning, I was cold. I slid out of bed and scooted to the living room to bump up the thermostat, then hurried back to my warm bed and sleep. A while later, I woke up again, and my nose was cold! The entire house was cold. The furnace was out.
Poor Mark donned work clothes and crawled and grumbled his way under the house to find the reset button on the old furnace. He pressed it and … nothing. So he called a repairman. I got ready for work, certain that by the time I got home, the house would be toasty and we’d go on our date.
It turned out to be much less simple than that. The oil tank needed to be replaced, but that would take a couple of days. We needed to find a place to stay.
Lucky for us, Mark’s parents lived next door. “Sure, come on over!” they said. “We’ll rent a couple of movies.” OK, not perfect, but we could enjoy an evening of laughing at a silly comedy.
We canceled our fancy dinner reservations and planned to eat with Mark’s parents. That’s when we learned the rest of the news: our nephews – young, rambunctious nephews – would be there for much of the evening. That changed things. I mean, an evening of comedy and adult conversation was one thing, but little boys and kiddie television was quite another. We decided to go out for pizza instead, a quiet dinner just the two of us.
We arrived at the restaurant and it was crowded. The last seats available were at a table next to the salad bar in the center of the room. At one table nearby, there was a screaming baby. Another table held triplet toddlers. And at the row of tables next to us was a child’s birthday party.
Our perky waitress, Wendy, took our drink orders and asked how we were doing this evening. Mark said, “We’re doing great! It’s our first anniversary!” “Wow!” Wendy gushed, genuinely happy to be part of our special day. Then she beamed at me, “Really?”
“Yeeeeeeeees …” I wailed and burst into tears. The frustration of the day finally caught up with me. Mark quietly ordered our drinks and the pizza, took my hand and told me he loved me. Suddenly it was as if we were alone, and everything was better. We lingered over our meal, then spent our first anniversary night in his old bedroom in twin beds. Oh, and that wedding cake didn’t thaw out in time to have it for dessert.
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