Seven Years Hitched

I'm not entirely sure why they call it the seven year itch. This idiom has made its way through the pages of George Axelrod's play to the movie with Marylyn Monroe and finally into our every day lives. Enough of it at least that it's the first thing that comes to mind when everyone finds out that you've been married for seven years and pretty much all other years in proximity to the seventh. Sixth year: seven year itch is coming up. Uh-oh. Eighth year: You survived. How was it? It's not the Mayan Calendar of marriages, and it is certainly not the end, at least for most people.

Do couples really feel as if by some invisible hand that they've been cordoned off into some subconscious section where there is an inclination to be unfaithful, lose touch with their spouses and ultimately the very partnership they share? I highly doubt that it takes seven years for a marriage to get testy, especially these days. You have marriages lasting months, weeks, even days.

We don't belong there, because we choose not too. I think my hubby and I have been fortunately blessed that, in spite of the fact that we argue like two kids in a sandbox at times, we make up for it with surprise attacks of affection. And bouts of laughter. Seven years married, yes. But we've been together for fifteen years. I always say, if we had a child in our first year together we'd have an angst-ridden teen by now who chews gum all the time and doesn't look you in the eye when being spoken to.

So, this weekend - Sunday (hardly date night) we arranged some family members to spend some time with Mandarin for a few hours and we made our way to the city. When you've been running around with a toddler and all the necessary strings attached to having one, it felt odd just carrying my purse and not watching out for the stroller, Mandarin's quilted jacket, her backpack, sippy cup, and snacks. Ah, the glorious entourage of motherhood.

I opted out of horse drawn carriage rides, baroque serenades, the opera tickets and the general Jane Austen package in what we may now consider date night of the 21st century. Watching twenty-four tributes hack each other to death and fight for their lives only to survive the daily toils of dystopia. This, followed by a  meal of designer cucumber slices with fancy words like lemon aioli and a fat, juicy slab of steak. Dinner and a movie.  

We haven't been on a date since Tori Amos' concert, haven't seen a movie (in theaters) for about a year and half and haven't been on a dinner date since Mandarin was born. As simple as it was, it was a perfect way to spend our anniversary. Nothing extravagant. A seemingly regular thing to do even on a weeknight and something we ourselves used to do, and yet given much gravitas this time around just because for a few hours, we can be just another couple you see on the street. 

It felt familiar, like the echo of your own voice, of a life that tunnels behind you. It felt - for a sliver of a moment there, like something was missing. Maybe it was holding Mandarin's little hands, or being used to carrying her on my hip, or having her trail along with us - the very basic rhythm of family life when being out and about,  that being a couple suddenly felt oddly, new. Off beat, even. 

Isn't that strange? Being parents is what we now consider to be normal. Of course, it's not like you lose parenthood just because your children are back home. It just brings the obvious into context; often forgotten by the daily hustle of family life. Date night should be an integral part of any relationship, and this day reminded us of that. It doesn't matter whether it's dinner and a movie, a Radiohead concert (which I'd gladly take any day!), or a beer in the backyard.  

Walking into the cinema level, though seemingly mundane was like seeing an old friend and pleasantly discovering you're still able to pick up where you left off - so we manage to find our bearings soon enough and ease into each other's company, just like old times.

Navigating through the adventures of marriage and seven years into being hitched; well that's good anchorage right there. 

Lighting was very dim at the lounge, these are the salvaged photos from my phone - thanks to Photoshop!

Driving through sunday night's subdued Embarcadero was peaceful to say the least.  The glimmer of streetlights, the open street, emptied restaurants and bars that are otherwise teeming with life on other days of the week was a refreshing sight to see. My husband mentions that we can turn up the music tonight because Mandarin isn't sitting behind - no delicate eardrums to ruin. And what pleasure it was, even if for a fifteen minute ride, to channel the music deep in your bones, a kindred thing he and I used to do from the time we met in college. Some things, thankfully, never changed in the last fifteen years. So we turn up Cage the Elephant as we veered into the freeway and eagerly made our way home. 

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