I love my husband. Maybe because we waited to marry until we were a little older (just on the cusp of 40), we both kind of knew what was important to us in a partner. And maybe because we haven’t had kids ourselves (although goodness knows we sometimes act as if we were five), we’ve been able to pour all of our energy (and all of our champagne toasts) into us as a couple. We feel really lucky and as if we’ve hit it out of the proverbial ballpark.
With our 22nd wedding anniversary peeking around the corner next week, I thought it a good time to give a shout-out to my partner in crime (so to speak), partner in mime (who needs words when an eye roll or a raised eyebrow will do), and, most important, partner in time (the best of our lives).
This man is the Bogart to my Bacall (one look at him and I’m smitten), the Astaire to my Rogers (okay, maybe not quite as much of a twinkletoes), the George to my Gracie (although none of our friends believes that, between the two of us, I’m the chatterbox).
B. is also the Nichols to my May (any of our aforementioned friends can attest to how B. and I launch into comedy shtick spontaneously, much to our own amusement). He’s the Paul Buchman to my Jamie Buchman (yes, I know that you all think that Mad About You is about you, but it’s not — it’s about us). And he’s the Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) to my Kathleen Kelly (Meg Ryan) in You’ve Got Mail (“Don’t cry, shopgirl, don’t cry,” and “What is it with men and The Godfather?”).
He’s also the Atticus to my anything, the Harry to my Sally, and, without a doubt, the Ricky to my Lucy.
And never has he proven his love more than just last week when I saw an ad announcing a concert. While we both like a lot of the same music — Bruce Springsteen, in particular — this concert was not that. This concert was a bit more, shall we say, one-sided. My side.
I jokingly put it out there anyway, knowing that B. would never agree to go because he is in no way, shape or form a fan (or anything even close to it) of the artist. I must confess (somewhat guiltily) that I am. A fan, that is. Okay, a Fanilow.
Love can do funny things to you. In this case, it led B. to make that ultimate sacrifice. This September, Hollywood Bowl. Haha.
After kissing him all over his adorable face when he surprised me with the tickets; after telling him that when I had listened to Barry Manilow’s songs as a teenager (I was such a hopeful romantic), it was someone like B. whom I conjured up in my head; after jumping around the room with joy and tripping over my feet in true Lucy fashion — I looked at my husband and realized, for the gazillionth time ever, just how lucky I am.
So to B. — in the words of Barry Manilow, “You came and you gave without taking.” In the words of me — I promise never to sing Mandy in front of you again. Ever. And I promise that we can leave before the encore so that we can get the hell out of the Bowl before the rest of those 20,000 or so other kooky Fanilows.
Happy anniversary, sweetheart. Hang in there. I hear that Springsteen will be touring next year.
You’re the rock to my roll.
ⓒ 2019 Claudia Grossman