Marriages should not last 50 years. We promised “till death do us part” when I was 23 and my husband, John, 24, but here we are, 73 and 74, respectively. Death has not reached us yet.
Once upon a time, when marriage was invented, people died in their forties or fifties. It was easier to keep that eternal promise. Just as my husband and I approached the 50-year mark, I began to think there should be an escape clause. Couples serving 50 years should be celebrated but can also be released from their vows.
In our case, John and I got through the seven-year itch and the first decade without a hitch. They were halcyon years and child-free. In our second decade, we had three children and very little sleep. We moved around California – San Bernardino, San Francisco, Costa Mesa – taking turns at job openings as they arose.
We started with a plan: 50-50 parts of housework and childcare, separate bank accounts, and occasional vacations. The plan worked pretty well for everything except daycare. Companies wanted 60 hours a week of his time, and the colleges I worked at were equally demanding.
“You said you’d be home by 7:00 PM,” I yelled at him. “You said you’d do half the daycare!” We were often angry with each other, and the walls of our houses were scarred. He hit a wall or two; I threw books and broke a window.
We talked about divorce and saw therapists but never completely pulled the plug, perhaps because we grew up watching our respective parents argue, not divorce.
The worst years were the third and fourth decades of marriage. Our family history of addiction and mental illness came to the fore as the children went through their teens. Family therapy turned out to be more painful than couples therapy.
However, we had a good job and settled in Santa Monica, where we found unity in dealing with natural and unnatural disasters: the Northridge earthquake, a small plane that crashed in our backyard, and the murder of Nicole Brown Simpson After her daughter and ours performed in a dance recital.
The fifth decade of marriage brought new tensions. Retirement caused two people who had never had much time for each other to spend most of the day in the same house. The 45th President helped us through this shock by organizing four tumultuous years of finding solace in reading newspapers, watching cable TV, and airing each other. Our politics has remained in sync despite our conflicts during our upbringing years.
We hit a golden anniversary this month, but running a flower-laden celebration was out of the question. Our kids knew the road rocky and were wthe road’s shaky, and we have repeatedly asked, “Why aren’t you divorced?”
For example, we are lazy. Dividing up the house, money, and family looked daunting; the gains may have outweighed the losses.
There are probably other couples who feel uneasy about how to mark the surprising longevity of their marriage. Let’s be real about it. Can’t we throw a party and yell “Olly olly oxen free” like we used to do when we played hide and seek?
I wish that all the hassle of being a couple would end, starting with permission to live apart from each other. I dream of a quiet apartment without basketball, baseball, and ice hockey on the flat screen all day, interrupted by John yelling, “Boom!” or yes!” I only want to eat together once a week.
Maybe I’d move to southern France or Alaska. Being too far apart to sleep together once in a while would be okay because sex isn’t what it was in our twenties. We already sleep in separate bedrooms because of the legacy of CPAP machines, getting up at night to pee, and long-term differences such as whether to keep the blinds open at night. I want to see the moon and the stars.
If I were single again, maybe I’d take a lover or be bisexual. Perhaps in the fashion of a medieval queen, I would retire to a monastery.
The problem is that marriage begins to bear fruit in the sixth decade, like an insurance policy. You have someone to drive you to and from your colonoscopy and other “procedures.”
Because you still live in one house, it is possible that your mortgage is being paid off. Maybe you have enough money to take a cruise or make other trips – with a walker.
Later in life, love is more complicated. Hormones and the magic of physical beauty drive it. Comfort and familiarity are a big part of love in the ’70s. We can talk about events and people from long ago without an explanation.
John and I were a little tense as the big date approached. We had to do something, but nothing too dramatic.
“Unless you have big plans, maybe we can eat out at that new spot on 20th Street for our anniversary,” he said two weeks before the event.
“That restaurant where IHOP used to be?” I asked. “That is a good idea.”
“The chef-owners are women and are commended.”
The perfect solution: dinner at Socalo, no kids, no extended family, no pressure.
Just the two of us, our memories, and a few kisses.
The author taught literature and women’s studies at CSU Northridge and is now completing a memoir called “Off Track: Confessions of a Feminist Christian.” She’s on Instagram: @annelinstatter.
LA Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious manifestations in the LA area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $300 for a published essay—email [email protected]. The guidelines for submitting applications can be found here. Previous columns can be found here.
