I got dance lessons for Christmas.
Last night we had our first one. Fun stuff.
A month from now we will be celebrating 25 years of marriage. Add the 6 years of dating we had before that, plus the year of being “just good friends” before that, and it adds up to, well, almost forever. The dance instructor wanted to know why we wanted to learn to dance. I said, “So if we go to New York to a fancy restaurant that has dancing, they won’t know we’re North Carolina hicks.”
I’m thinking they could probably tell that anyway, not that it matters all that much.
Every little girl, at some point or another, wants to be the beautiful princess, Cinderella at the ball. If you know your Rodgers and Hammerstein, you know that the title of this blog came from Cinderella. Whatever.
If I do the math, it works out that I’ve been with Hubby for 66.6% of my life. I still don’t know everything about him and never will. That’s part of the fun, finding out new things every day. Like, never in a million years did I expect to get dance lessons for Christmas.
We’ve been reconnecting with high school friends on Facebook recently. With a couple of exceptions, most of our friends married, then divorced. I think one of the reasons why marriages fail is because people go into it thinking it’s going to be Cinderella at the ball. But eventually the clock strikes midnight, the dress turns back into rags, the horses to mice and the carriage…a punkin. (That’s Suthrun’ for “pumpkin”.)
The real magic to the Cinderella story isn’t apparent. If I could rewrite the story, I’d write it such that, when the prince places the slipper on her foot, she does become beautiful. In his eyes, definitely. But to everyone else, maybe not.
Because the magic happens between just the two of them. No matter what, they would always see each other as they are in that moment.
Even 32 years later, when the hair’s turning gray, or turning loose. When the laugh lines start getting deeper. When there’s month left at the end of the money, and the cat barfs in the middle of the bed, and the house is swarming with teenagers that aren’t ours, like right now. It is Saturday, after all.
When I look in the mirror and wonder, how could anyone love this person?
And Hubby says, “Can I have this dance?”
(About that 66.6%: it’s really 66.6 repeating to infinity. I like that.)