The first year of marriage of is like the icing on a cake. It’s sweet, lavish, often colorful, and indulgent. It’s no wonder that a year later, the bride and groom traditionally eat a piece of their frozen wedding cake, because the icing is gone, and they are graduating into phase II of marriage, the cake part, or reality. There’s nothing wrong with the cake. In fact, some might argue the cake is sweeter than the frosting, but–
Okay, I’ll stop waxing philosophic and cut the metaphors. Let’s get to the point: the first year of marriage with Jeff was fun and easy. Introducing him as “my husband” gave me pangs of joy and good fortune. I felt like a school girl all over again, never lamenting my days on Match.com and Tinder.
Scuba Dave was a thing of the past (though I ran into him often at Coffee Obsession), and I was living Cape-style in Woods Hole, the way I’d hoped, having beach bonfires in the snow and sipping cider at the Annual Cider Press outside the village library. My weekends with Jeff were composed of trips down Cape, drinks at The Squire in Chatham and art gallery shopping in Provincetown. Or, since we lacked a schedule, and or anyone to take care of, we’d often wake up at ten and grab brunch at Quick’s Hole Tavern or The Pickle Jar.
Life was good (notice I didn’t say Life IS Good, like that saying from Nantucket that pops up on the fenders of yuppy Jeeps or on an infant’s onesie at baby showers). And speaking of babies, they were the last thing on my mind, despite the fact that my eggs were almost fried, and everyone was asking me when we’d start trying.
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