Marriage is a crazy thing. Two otherwise rational people, in my case young people, get all dressed up, spend a ton of money, and in the middle of it all, promise they will stay together. Forever.
Forever is a mighty long time.
I had no “long-term plan” like my more together friends. I didn’t have a “short-term plan” either. I usually didn’t know what I’d be having for dinner on any given night. So how could I know what it would be like to commit to something that huge?
About a year into the marriage, during a particularly ugly patch, I pulled out a copy of the vows. I was looking for loopholes. Nope. Pretty tight. I’d made some pretty big promises. So instead, I had a good cry, and a large drink, and philosophized. I decided that marriages needed a Seven Year Clause.
Instead of a marriage continuing in perpetuity, it should need to be renewed, officially, every seven years. Conversely, if at the seven year mark, one of the parties did not want to continue, the marriage could be dissolved. No hard feelings, we had a good run, but I’d like to pursue other avenues. There would be provisions in place for any children created in those seven years, provisions for an easy, no hassle way to divide assets (I was young and
stupid idealistic then. So sue me).
I can say now that I probably would have seriously considered the option at the seven year mark.
But if I had, 2 gorgeous, hilarious, chubby little kids would not exist. Without them, I never would have appreciated my husband as a father, which was kind of like meeting him all over again, but a better, grown up version of him. And if those kids hadn’t dragged me to the park, I would never have met a friend who still plays a pivotal role in my life (No, I am not being dramatic) (Well, maybe a little. It’s who I am, it’s what I do). I wouldn’t have had a safe place to land while I figured who this crazy little mess called Ginny actually was.
The next anniversary divisible by 7 is coming up in just over 3 years. I may revisit the idea of the Seven Year Clause.
I may not.