My Parents, 31 Years Later

I’ve always had this perfect love story worked out in my head. Aladdin dressed in a business suit would come get me and we would live happily ever after. We would meet in a coffee shop or on the street, we would do everything traditionally and our life would be this Southern fairy tale that you only read about in Nicholas Sparks’ books before they turn sad.

And, my mother and grandmother constantly told me that there was no way that would happen. The women in my family have these crazy love stories, and I was doomed to have anything but normal. The older I get, though, the more thankful I am for those crazy love stories. After all, they worked for them.

I’m still waiting on my Aladdin, but I’ve given up on the rest like I’ve given up on keeping my house clean when I’m fostering puppies or training my little inner city ballerinas to be the next Mira Popovich. What I’ve learned is this: The details aren’t important when you’re loving on someone (or something).

My parents celebrated their 31^st wedding anniversary today.

They met in a bar. My God-fearing, church-going parents met in the toughest bar in Huntsville, AL.

Momma thought his name was Gabe for the first few months. His name is Steve Gable and everyone called him “Gabe,” from what I understand.

Earlier this year my Dad said everyone called my mom and aunt “Thunder” and “Lightning.” Judging by the way he said it—and the way my Momma blushed—I’m fairly certain there’s an embarrassing story behind it that they won’t tell me.

Payback is getting it told on Patch, Mom. Don’t forget that.

And she doesn’t have the only crazy story.

To this day I have to watch myself around sailors. I’m secretly afraid I might bump into one and get married a few days later. After all, it’s hereditary.

My great aunt on my grandmother’s side married my great uncle on my grandfather’s side a few years ago. They were a couple in the sixth grade, grew up, married other people, were both widowed, then got together again. You want to see grown men cry? Their first dance was to the Alan Jackson song, "Remember When." I'm tearing up now just thinking about it.

I’m doomed.

I know these are all stories about couples and stuff, but that’s not what I’m thinking about right now. What weighs on me so much is that I have to give up the perfect things. My narcoleptic Pit Bull, chubby Chihuahua and cross-eyed Bassett Hound are infinitely better for me than any designer breed I could pick out.

The little girls I teach ballet to in inner city Atlanta are infinitely better for me than classically trained child prodigies in Marietta.

It’s messy, it’s disorganized, there are dog toys everywhere and unpointed toes, but my happiness is contingent on theirs.

And they are happy.

Love stories aren’t perfect. They never are. But every time I fall into bed dead tired and covered in dirt, scratches, bruises and sore toes, I’m happy they’re not.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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