one long laugh

Today is my grandparents' 59th wedding anniversary.  

When I called them on my way home from work, they wanted to tell me all about their lunch.  Apparently my grandpa decided to mark the day by taking my grandma to a seafood restaurant she loves, "which is all of fifteen minutes away," she supplied.  "It only took us two and a half hours," he chimed in.  Their commingled laugher echoed down the line.  It seems they took a wrong turn ("Your grandfather turned right, even though I told him to turn left, and of course left was the right way.") and while they have a GPS, they're not really all that good at using it. ("That damn thing kept telling us to go in a circle!")  But they made it, eventually, and the lobster was delicious.  

Then my grandma said, reflectively, "I remember when your grandpa asked me to marry him.  I told him, 'I think if I marry you, it's just going to be one long laugh.'  And you know... it has been."

They were still giggling when I hung up with them.

We should all be so lucky, eh?

this year

"Ben's in town for the wedding.  He's staying at our place this weekend," I say.

It's a Wednesday night and I'm threading through the puckered traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard, talking to Morgan while I drive.  A few miles away, she's doing the same thing on Los Feliz Boulevard.  (Welcome to social life in Los Angeles.)

"Oh, IS HE."  Her voice is heavy with significance.

"Yes, Morgan, he is."

"Don't you take that tone with me, Clare Alexandra."

"No, no!  Really!"  I acknowledge the obvious:  "I have decided to do something novel and not hook up with him this time."

There's an unmistakable snort on the other end of the line.  "Clare, listen to me," she says.  "You are one of my best friends.  I think you are beautiful and smart and you can do anything you put your mind to.  Except that if Ben Harmon is anywhere in a five-mile radius, you are going to make out with him, no matter what you have decided."

The truth is that we've had this conversation quite a few times before.  I go ahead and deliver my line:  "Oh, shut up, I hate you."

Two years ago, I said that because she was right on the money.  This year, though, I just say it because it's what I've always said.  In fact, the weekend comes and goes as I suspected it might, without a single untoward incident.  There's some alcohol involved, but everyone sleeps in their designated beds.  There are no awkward moments in the morning -- just sleepy hugs goodbye so he can make his early flight.

Afterwards, I stand on my front porch, staring up at the little strip of sky slowly brightening between my building and the one next door.  Maybe this is what growing up feels like.  But I'm pretty nostalgic for all the years of bad decisions, and I go back to bed -- clean, unrumpled, hangover-free -- feeling strangely sad.