A Guest Post by Jennifer Windram

My husband and I can’t be bothered with things like time and dates. We are above them, beyond them and oblivious to them.

It all began with our engagement. My husband planned to propose on an early morning hike, which of course was a surprise to me. Well, hiking in Colorado usually calls for some forethought, some planning. My soon to be fiancé took care of all the details (food, location, gear) but thought nothing of time. We slept in, lingered at breakfast. I was ready to give up the prospect of hiking–it was already past seven in the morning. But he was insistent and we went. We were too late to get good parking, the storms rolled in by the time we reached the top and the day was long gone by the time we descended. Lesson learned we told ourselves. We will never run late like that again.

Skip to our wedding day. We decided to elope in the San Juan Islands. The ceremony was in the afternoon so we went hiking. There was plenty of time right? Soon we were partway up the mountain, just a little more to go. We reasoned that it would be quicker going down. We’d have plenty of time. Nope. We were 30 minutes late to our own wedding.

A couple of years later and we can’t remember any of our anniversary dates. Our first date was some time in July, after the fourth is all I know. We finally head to the restaurant where we first wooed each other in August, maybe in September, because we can’t remember the exact date and forget about it anyway.

Last year, on our wedding anniversary, my parents sent us well wishes before I even realized the importance of the day.

This year, though, was the most embarrassing. We were on vacation in Colonial Virginia, staying at a lovely B&B. Guests were gathered on the patio, enjoying appetizers. We took turns sharing tidbits about our trips and why we chose to stay at this B&B.

The couple sitting next to me explained that they had gotten married at this B&B, a year ago to the day. It was their one-year anniversary. I nodded and congratulated them.

Then my husband elbowed me and said under his breath, “what day is it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Sunday?”

“No, the date,” he whispered. “I think it’s our anniversary.”

I looked at the calendar on my phone and sure enough it was. Everyone seemed amused, maybe somewhat sorry for us–the poor couple that can’t even remember their own anniversary.

But that’s now how I see it. I feel like my life with him is one big blur of happiness. Time just flies. In my mind, there was no start date, it has always been. There is no need to count, or keep track, because just as we have always been, we will always be. Forever. When people ask me how long I’ve been married, I stumble over my words, quickly trying to do the math. I usually end up saying something like, “I don’t know. Around six or seven years. Who’s counting anyway?”

I’ll admit, though, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for our tenth or twenty-fifth anniversary. Those are biggies. Maybe by then we’ll have added the date to our calendar or at least have learned to always leave thirty minutes early. Even if we think we have time to get down the mountain, then get dressed, do our (my) hair, buy flowers, find the ceremony location…

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