Even the Uneven

 

This photo was taken almost two years ago. We were zipping along the Ligurian Sea on our way to our waterfront table at Les Viviers du Pilon Saint-Tropez, in the South of France. That’s how we spent our 34th wedding anniversary.

 

Last year, on our 35th, we stayed home and ate leftovers.

 

This year, amid a pandemic, we’re planning a mountain bike ride with a picnic. Maybe later that evening we’ll do some take-out and Netflix.

 

That’s the plan on how we’ll spend our 36th anniversary. That’s the plan, anyway.

 

If this pandemic has taught us anything, it’s how much we don’t know. We can be zipping along, taking every little thing for granted, and then wham, everything changes. You suddenly find out how clueless you were—are.  How much you took—take—for granted.

 

I guess I should switch back to first person.

 

I’m assuming John and I will take our bike ride and when we get hungry, we’ll find an even(ish) spot on the ground, layout our black and white checkered picnic blanket that’s as old as our marriage and held up remarkably well, considering. We’ll eat some sandwiches on my homemade bread. We’ll crack a couple of La Croix (fake Frenchy name, yummy bubble water).

 

Or will we?

 

I just listened to a podcaster talk about the sudden loss of the love of his life this week. With his voice cracking, Marc Maron openly, generously, heart-breakingly shared how they were just zipping along and then, wham. She’s gone.

 

If I could only remember to live like I don’t know squat, I imagine how much more present I’d be—how much more vibrant each moment would be. How much more content I’d be. How much more thankful I’d be. How much more loving and forgiving I’d be.

 

All I really know is that I have this moment, in this even(ish) spot.

 

And that’s all you know and have, too.