The officiant was Fr. Murphy, a short Irish priest with a round, ruddy face and ready smile. When I think of him, my mind immediately goes to the time Dan and I were in his office at the rectory for one of our pre-Cana meetings. We were discussing the kind of ceremony we wanted.
"Now, there's the long version (with a mass)," said Father, "or we can do the short version."
Since my husband-to-be and half of our guests were non-Catholic, I'd already decided to spare them the longer version. But, before I could say anything, Dan piped up and said, "Well, Father, the way I see it, it's like a girl in a bikini. You want enough to cover the subject, but brief enough to keep it interesting."
Father's already red face turned brighter red and he burst out laughing.
To celebrate our anniversary this year, Dan and I spent a weekend in the mountains and stayed at a B&B. After the events of the past few months of moving and settling in and putting in a yard, it was pure heaven to just relax and stroll the streets of the small mountain town, stopping for lunch at one of the rustic taverns. Sitting on the patio, enjoying the mountain views. We took a long drive one day, and it reminded me of when we were first dating and would go on jeep trips through the high country of Colorado. I used to love just sitting beside him in the front seat of his CJ7, sometimes chatting about this that or the other, sometimes in companionable silence, confident that he would handle the steep hills, craggy rocks and narrow roads with ease.
The first night we stretched on our respective sides of the bed, Dan with the controller, starting us both at 30, then adjusting up, then down, in search of our respective Numbers. After 15 minutes of this, I was reluctant to say anything, but I didn't notice a whole lot of difference. That was when we realized we had the sides mixed up with the controller. We started again. I still couldn't tell much difference. Finally, I just said, "That feels great!"
"My side, too," he said.
Me: "What Numbers are we?"
Him: "We're both 50."
A silent moment of disappointment. This, from a couple who hates it when we both order the exact same thing at a restaurant. We pride ourselves on our individuality.
Him: "Well, what the hell's the point of controlling our own sides, if we end up with the same number? [the bed starts pumping and wheezing again] I'm going to be 55. You're 45."
And we left it at that.