On July 20, 2002, Erick and I were married in a ceremony at Christ Church in New York City. Like any wedding, the day was filled with snafus and family drama, but it was — and remains — the happiest day of my life, hands-down, no contest.
I don’t write much about Erick. That’s partly because he’s the only other member of our family who can read, and partly because he’s the most normal and well-adjusted member of our family — which makes him less interesting than, say, a two-year-old.
So, even though today is our 10th wedding anniversary, I’m not going to write much about Erick. Because I can’t imagine anything he’d like less than me gushing about him on the internet. And because I’m even more reluctant to discuss my marriage than I am to discuss my parenting; it’s still kind of a mystery to me.
But this winter I read Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott (which I’d highly recommend to anybody). In it, Lamott recounts a joke that, when I read it, immediately made me think of Erick:
I was remembering an old story the other day about a man getting drunk at a bar in Alaska. He’s telling the bartender how he recently lost whatever faith he’d had after his twin-engine plane crashed in the tundra.
“Yeah,” he says bitterly. “I lay there in the wreckage, hour after hour, nearly frozen to death, crying out for God to save me, praying for help with every ounce of my being, but he didn’t raise a finger to help. So I’m done with that whole charade.”
“But,” said the bartender, squinting an eye at him, “you’re here. You were saved.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” says the man. “Because finally some goddamn Eskimo came along…”
What does that have to do with our marriage?
Well, I’m grateful every day that I married my Eskimo. Happy decade, Erick.