Over the weekend, I met a sweet, chatty old man while waiting to get new tires put on my car. He was excited about his upcoming 52nd wedding anniversary, though he’d known his wife much longer than that. They’d met in the first grade when, as a homework assignment, he’d struck up a pen-pal relationship with her. They kept writing to each other over the years and finally met when the Army stationed him in England, where she lived. He told me that when he saw her, he just knew.
I’ve watched several friends (and celebrities; how could you TomKat?!) go through painful divorces this year, and this old man’s story was almost enough to restore my faith in marriage. Almost. Because when I got home, my young, newlywed neighbors were having a long, loud fight about his cheating on her — and to germaphobe me, this is the ickiest part — in the bed they’ve been sharing.