I want a parade. Now, let's be clear, this would not be my first parade. The first parade was 9 years ago today. At my wedding in New Orleans. A Second Line it is called. Sidebar: yes Hubs, I said "my". I realize that it was "ours" but let it go on this one, it's for dramatic effect. Traditionally reserved for jazz funeral processions where mourners walk solemnly behind a casket to a grave site, only to walk/dance back home to upbeat jazzy celebration music, the Second Line has become synonymous with all sorts of celebrations. When my boyfriend (now husband) and I had been on a trip to one of our favorite towns (NOLA) we saw one, and I said - "I want a parade". He responded with, "Most people say they love a parade, but you, you say you want a parade". And I got one - 3ish years later when we decided to get married in New Orleans.
Although this is my anniversary - I'm not going to go into details of that super amazing party we threw 9 years ago...people will be talking about that shindig for years. No, today I am going to talk about why I think I want, nay deserve, another parade. Why, after 9 years, I want to throw down the boatloads of money that it takes to procure the police escort, the band, the handkerchiefs and all the other nuances that go into having one. Bottom line - we have bloody-well earned it.
Nobody ever tells you when you are growing up, or dating, or engaged, or planning a wedding, or ever, for that matter, that marriage is hard work. Those in it know - it's back breaking at times. Then throw in some kids you gotta raise to be upstanding humans, and job moves and global pandemics and all the other shit life throws at you, and marriage is downright hell on a couple. Nobody ever said it was easy, but they also never said it would suck so hard sometimes. I surmise that this is because if we knew what it would take to keep it going in the beginning, then the 65% of people that decide to get divorced, wouldn't get married in the first place. I also suspect that 95% of the people that would have liked to have gotten divorced in our grand or great-grandparent's generations would have walked the fuck out had it been an option to them.
As I write this, I don't really feel qualified to even do so - Hubs and I have only been married 9 years; together for 13. I have vintage stilettos older than that. I mean, my parents have been married for like ever, (47 years, I think - sorry M&D if I am off - I have lost track) and we have friends, both younger and older, that have been together for like 25 years - I only associate that number with, like, mortgage terms. How the fuck do they do it? How do you evolve as humans separately, and together? The answer - hard work.
I don't have ALL the answers - this blog isn't meant to be any sort of how-to, because Lord knows, Hubs and I are far from the Waltons - and we take everything day by day. What I do know is this - the amount effort that is required for true love, honesty, trust, passion, patience, compromise and everything in between deserves some credit. Milestones achieved for keeping it going, deserve to be celebrated. Married folk should have a fucking blowout celebration for every single anniversary. Every. Single. One. Each year is a major accomplishment.
So, basically, this is why we deserve another parade. I want to blow-out the fact that Hubs and I made it through another year of partnership, potty-training and pandemics. I want to dance down a street, with a Hurricane in hand, to celebrate the fact that we survived another 365 days - which is more than 65% of the married population out there. Gold star to us on that one. We friggen rock.
That being said, these days I would be happy starting with a simple FB post from my Hubs, that I am pretty sure forgot we got married today, until he saw my FB post. Yep Hubs, public shaming - but I still love you till the end.
Foul mouthed, outspoken and pretty much an eternal realist.