PS: It’s Marty’s Birthday Today

The birthday boy, high atop a tower in his homeland (Czech Republic)

LONG BACKSTORY FOR CONTEXT:

I am certain that I’m not the only person who sets Arbitrary Rules to Live By and then panics if any one of those rules is ever violated. I have policies regarding when to use my debit card vs. my credit card, lists of foods that are appropriate to serve to dinner guests (and longer lists re: what not to serve, EVER!), and a detailed mental flow chart of acceptable conversation topics to use with family members, friends, and perfect strangers.

These rules have not been written in stone by any means (hence the title: arbitrary), but I can’t help feeling a flutter in my tummy every time I whip out my Visa instead of my bank card or commit the unthinkable act and serve my guests hummus. (I love garlic, but will they?) I won’t even mention the awkward conversation I once had with a professor about Blackberries. He was talking about the latest technological gadget… but I was fixated on those delicious, juicy fruits. I should have remembered to never engage in tech talk with my intellectual superiors.

Pretending we were on our honeymoon in Alaska (2004), much to the delight and cooing of the other passengers on board the Lu-Lu Belle. We had been dating for all of 7 months but felt very much like we were in a honeymoon phase.

Anyway. One of my most steadfast rules growing up was the 8 Year Rule. I decreed to myself that I would never date anybody more than 8 years older than me, specifically because that would make my beau closer to my mom’s age than to mine. I felt that it would be very awkward and possibly gross/wrong to date somebody in my mom and dad’s league, so I stuck to this rule like gum sticks to shoes. (If you are confused by the math, remember that I am the product of teen parents– my mom was 16 years old when she gave birth to me.)

Funnily enough, Marty also had an Arbitrary, Age-Related Rule for potential partners. His rule wasn’t based on the immutable age difference between himself and his parents, though– nope. Instead, after ending a long-term relationship with a woman who was 29 years old according to the calendar (but maybe 18 years old on the maturity scale), he decided that he would Never Again Date Anybody Younger Than 29.

Well.

The night that Marty and I met each other, we started falling in deep, crazy love before we even knew the most basic information about each other. Like whether Marty was old enough to be my dad. We were marveling at just how amazing the other person was– “He’s a vegetarian, too? Is this heaven??“; “She usually does something new-agey to mark every Solstice and Equinox? Is she an angel??“– and then I totally ruined the moment by asking Marty his age.

[insert 80s-style screeching of a needle on a spinning record]

He whispered that he was 32. What?! 8 Year Rule: Violated by 2 whole years! (2 and a half years when you factored in his winter birthday and my summer one.)

I felt like I had been punched in the gut and again in the head. Could I possibly date somebody who was an entire decade older than me, even if he was a Complete and Total Marvel, the very embodiment of Heaven on Earth?

... not as old as the tree, for sure.

Taking advantage of the sour-feeling that was now lingering slightly in the air, Marty decided to ask me my age. For those of you who are not math-inclined and didn’t already figure it out, I was 22. Say what?! ‘Must Be 29+ Years Old To Ride’ Rule: Violated by a whopping 7 years!

I think we both panicked a little (breaking rules is bad and carries scary consequences!), but fortunately, our blossoming love flower was already planted too deeply for our flagrant age violations to matter very much. We resumed our sickening admiration of each other and have continued to fawn over each other to this day. (Marty’s mom groans to her friends that we stare at each other like we are exquisite, fine art masterpieces, and my mom usually asks me, “Do you still pet Marty like a puppy?” when we talk on the phone. The answer is always ‘yes’. Of course I still do.)

Long Beach is for lovers!

Aaaannnyway…. Our 10-year age difference might have been more shocking when I was a fresh 22 and Marty was a more seasoned 32. However, time has passed and it doesn’t seem so crazy to be dating a 40-something man in my 30s. Marty turns 41 today, and I’m so glad I was a badass rule disobeyer back in the day and gave our relationship a chance! After all, Arbitrary Rules were made to be broken, right? (Even if it does mean my husband and both my parents are all in their 40s for now. Ahem.)

Join me in wishing Marty a Happy 41st, dear readers!

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