Anniversary Invites, Decoded
You know what really cheeses my nachos? Picking out the right one. No really. Wedding anniversary invitations. Oh, don’t get me wrong—I am a walking paradox wrapped in a rainbow scarf, curled up on the couch watching a ‘90s romcom for the thousandth time, but hand me some crinkly, glittery envelope marked “INVITATION” and I basically short-circuit with glee.
Real talk: This blog was supposed to be about life. Like, Big Life. Or Coffee. Or baffling sock mysteries. But if my soul had playlists, “Love After Years” would be my number one jam. People gathering to toast a couple’s mutual tolerance—my God, hand me a tissue and a slice of cake topped with existential meaning.
Do you remember the first time you opened an anniversary invitation? I do. I was eight. It had embossed calligraphy and a suspicious stain (which, years later, we lovingly referred to as “the mystery gravy incident”). No, it didn’t make sense. Yes, it was magical. There’s just something hilariously sacred about the ritual: the RSVP deadlines people ignore, the greedy jostle for the guestbook pen, and the fact that, inevitably, every party favors basket contains stale mints and exactly two unbranded tea bags. Can we agree this is art?
People think wedding anniversaries are all about “honoring love’s journey, la la la, cue the bittersweet playlist.” Lies! It’s mostly about seeing if Grandpa still outdances the grandkids and how many times Uncle Larry will mispronounce "congratulations." Except—plot twist—it is also about that journey. Or at least the ability to not strangle your spouse while arguing over where to hang the invitation on your overstuffed fridge.
I guess what I’m saying is, EVERYONE needs something that turns them into a sentimental puddle. And for me, that “something” just so happens to be Mrs. & Mr. Funky Unpronounceable German Sneeze-Name’s Diamond Got-Through-Sixty-Years-Without-Burying-Each-Other-In-The-Garden! Written in sparkly home-printer-ink on heavy card stock, presumably blessed by at least three of the four drama-prone family dogs.
Maybe I’m easy to please. Or maybe I’m desperately trying to collect the shards of everyone’s awkward, well-intentioned romance and paste them on my metaphorical mood board. (Mod Podge, please sponsor this blog.)
The point is, when you get an anniversary invitation—whether it's for the cool aunt who's been married since disco was in, or the neighbors on their third martini-fueled decade—you’re not just being asked to wear uncomfortable shoes and pretend you like dry chicken. Nope. You’re standing witness to cosmic, often hilarious hope. To the idea that yeah, maybe forever is just thirty thousand tiny personal decisions to keep showing up, one sticky envelope at a time.
So, keep sending those weirdly scented invites, universe. I’ll keep saying yes. Or at least maybe. Let's be real: depends if cake is involved.
But I’ll keep coming, pen at the ready, soft spot on full display, half-expecting the calligraphy to spell out my own future love story.
And if all else fails, there’s always gravy.