It was my 25th wedding anniversary on the 26th.
If you had told me, a Jewish kid from New York, that I’d get married, have kids, stay married, and build my life in Houston, Texas, I’d have called bullshit. Anyone who really knew me back then would’ve agreed. I was not the most stable young man. And yet, here we are.
I woke up next to Kate, like I’ve done almost every day for the past 25 years. I checked my phone, which I know better than to do, and immediately read an email from a client canceling our contract two days before our annual kickoff call. Not good. Then came the JibJab anniversary card from my mom and stepdad with dancing coffee cups (so personal), a reminder that property taxes are due by the 31st (lovely), and a notice from LMU that Harper changed his meal plan, which somehow costs another $2,600. Damn that kid eats. Then the hits kept coming.
The dogs were scratching at the door. It was freezing outside. We were out of their “we feed raw” food inside, so I had to head to the garage fridge and freeze my ass off.
After that, I got into my routine, made my coffee, sat in my Epsom salt bath, and let Kate keep sleeping peacefully.
Around 7:30, I got back into bed. We kissed good morning. I slid a couple of anniversary cards over to her that I’d written the day before. We told each other how much we loved one another, how grateful we were for 25 years together, and how committed we were to another 25. To spare my boys who are likely reading this, I’ll just say things got romantic after that.. And then…
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It was just another Monday.
We were supposed to be away that weekend. Terlingua. A place called Willow House in the middle of nowhere. Stars, Big Bend hikes, a long road trip. I had it all planned. Friends had gone over New Year’s and raved about it. Then Texas did its every-few-years thing where ice shuts the entire state down and turns highways into a mess, so we called an audible.
Dinner at Uchi instead. They nailed it. Corner table like I asked. Anniversary wishes from the staff. A special dish from the kitchen. Even a $25 gift card to come back. Service matters to me.
Somewhere in the middle of all the normal inconveniences and quiet absurdities, it hit me again how much I really love this woman. Like, really love her. We annoy the hell out of each other, but someone once described 29029, the hike I do every year, as “frustratingly doable,” and that phrase stuck with me. Marriage is frustratingly doable. At least ours is.
There’s a lot of talk about finding your purpose, meaning, happiness, and passion, as if the goal is to keep searching for something better. That’s not it for me. I found all of that 25 years ago. Actually 27, but it took two years to convince her to marry me. And I know with absolute certainty there’s no better option, choice, or person for me.
We’ve somehow managed to both be impossible at times and still make everything we’ve wanted in life possible. If you’re taking odds, it’s highly probable we’ll make it another 25. I don’t know if it gets easier. It hasn’t so far. But it’s simple. We get better together.
I know the cliche:
Some people grow apart. Some people grow together.
We’re lucky that we like each other as much as we love each other. We argue. We can be difficult. But we understand one another. We’re committed.
But I will admit, it messes with my head that I now have a wife who is closer to 60 than 50. I remember being in my 30s thinking the idea of sleeping with a 50-year-old sounded insane, and now I’m headed toward 60 myself, wondering how the hell this happened while I still feel about 30.
I look at pictures of us from 25 years ago, and we’re both doing pretty well for our ages and stages. Thankfully, Kate hasn’t gone down the filler-and-procedure road. She knows exactly where the line is, and we talk about it openly. She’s confident, kind, grounded, and a great mother. I tell our boys all the time that the two most important decisions you’ll ever make are the woman you marry and the woman you have children with. I’m two for two.
I don’t know if this counts as a love letter, but it’s honest. It’s hard to be fit. It’s hard to be out of shape. It’s hard to be together. It’s hard to be alone. It’s hard to make a marriage work, and it’s hard to walk away from one too. You choose your hard.
I choose another 25 with Kate. I work at it. She works at it. And because of that, we work.
There’s something peaceful about having your person in a world that doesn’t value peace very much. Someone who has your back and someone whose back you have. A partner. Going places together. Reading each other’s body language. The silent “stay or go” signals that only we understand. That stuff is ours.
Even the things that aren’t new anymore, the routines and familiarity, are comforting. We’re not new to one another, and that’s the point. We can do new things together, but the foundation is solid. That’s growing older together. That’s family.
Kate and I are family. We built it. There’s nothing more real than that.
It’s also just another Monday.
And that’s exactly the way it should be.
In Health (and 25 years of marriage),
Greg Scheinman
Founder, Midlife Male
Husband. Father. Entrepreneur. Coach.
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