In 1990 Laurel and I got married on St. Patrick's Day, March 17. Great decision.
I've never forgotten our anniversary, not even once in the past 31 years, because an image of green beer always makes me think, "Time to get flowers and a card!"
Shock (not). We looked much younger when we were much younger. Our wedding was at the house we'd bought a few months before in Spring Lake Estates, where we're still living.
My only regret about our wedding was how I'd botched my marriage proposal. On the plus side, it was spontaneous, though I'd been thinking about it for some time.
On the negative side, the proposal was so wishy-washy, Laurel paused for a few seconds after I'd stammered out what I had to say, then said, "Um, are you asking to marry me?"
Naturally I responded with an emphatic "Yes!"
Not to excuse how I screwed up what could have been a much more magical moment for Laurel (she hadn't been married before), but the proposal was an improvement from my first marriage.
That took place when I was 22 and still in college. I don't recall ever proposing to Sue.
Somehow the decision to get married just happened -- unless the psychedelics I'd taken in my college years caused me to blank out on how we ended up getting married in a Palo Alto park by the crazed Greek Christian yoga teacher we'd been taking classes from, with sitar and tabla players from the Ali Akbar Khan School of Music.
Laurel and I got married in a more traditional fashion -- albeit by a Unity minister who we'd only met once before, and who had to keep referring to a piece of paper to make sure she had our correct names.
The cake had a leaning tower of Pisa feel to it. No big deal, though we were a bit nervous about the whole thing falling over before it could be eaten. Which didn't happen.