Yesterday was our 17th wedding anniversary.
No candlelit dinner. No spa day. No excursion to the exotic island of our choice. We’re not given to flights of romantic fancy very often, but even by our standards, it was low-key.
We found a sitter at the 11th hour and opted to go out for dinner, sans enfants. The restaurant was nice but not pricey. We used a coupon.
(Yes, I am my parents.)
Our conversation was decidedly prosaic. We didn’t reminisce about our wedding 17 years ago. We talked about a particular struggle one of our children is facing right now and how we can help. We talked about buying a piece of land, or maybe a new minivan, or maybe nothing. We talked about whether or not to grow our family, and the myth of spending “quality time” with our kids. Then we shared a Cannoli-Strawberry-Chocolate Cake gelato and went home to put the kids to bed.
It wasn’t until after midnight that I realized I hadn’t properly signified the occasion by uploading a picture or posting about it on social media.
For one stupid nanosecond, I felt guilty — as if our celebration of 17 years was in some way lessened because I didn’t post it to Facebook. Surely Scott deserves a little online bragging. Isn’t that something a loving wife should do?
And then I felt the urge to throat-punch myself.