Anniversary: The Halogen Supernova of Love
Oh, wedding anniversaries. The Halogen supernovae of love celebrations. None of this modest flicker-in-a-breezy-dining-room candle junk for people who have chosen to stick it out through one revolution of the sun (or, let’s be honest, seventy). No, my friends—anniversaries are nature’s big, beaming “FCK YEAH!” spotlight on all things weird, wobbly, and wonderful about actually wanting to be attached to another human for more than the average Netflix trial period.
*(“Stick it out” is my grandmother’s term, so if you want to picture her, think: Queen Elizabeth, but the retired edition with even less patience for shenanigans and a penchant for rhinestone brooches shaped like birds.)
I know what you’re thinking: anniversaries are just one more excuse for department stores to ruthlessly guilt-trip you into committing to a heart-shaped spatula or a singing Hallmark card bursting into ‘Unchained Melody’ every time you open it at 2am. (Not that I’ve experienced this horror show. Twice. The dog hid under the sofa for three days.) But—here’s the thing—there’s this surprisingly earnest undertow beneath the glitter. These anniversaries, these strange, stubborn keep-on-keeping-on commemorations, they glow. Earnestly. Obnoxiously. Like Halogen bulbs flaring impolitely in the middle of a blackout, they do not let the darkness have the last word.
Let me set a mood. Imagine—no, FEEL— the blinding pastel light of an anniversary shindig. (You know the kind, with napkins you’re not allowed to wipe on your jeans and cake so dense it could be used for medieval fortification.) There’s Uncle Bob, who hasn’t seen his own socks in eight years; he’s somehow holding a glass of off-brand champagne and singing ‘Islands in the Stream’ to your Aunt Gloria (who, darling soul, is profoundly tone-deaf). Everyone claims they’re “just here for the cake” but you know full well two people sat through decades of mild irritation and improbable pets just so we could all raise a glass to The Thing Called Love. Love, that aromatic substance—equal parts devotion, innovation, and selective hearing—in glorious, centuries-old display.
Blink and you might miss it: these wedding anniversaries are not about the grand declarations or even the Instagrammable cake-smashing boomerangs (though I will happily accept either—slide into my DMs for shipping info). These are Halogen-bright reminders that love, the long-game version, doesn’t carefully tuck itself away in safe corners of life. It blares. It runs the table, wears down batteries. It hurts your retinas if you look at it head-on, but it’s the only thing illuminating the room when you step beyond the daily fluff into the deeper, wild territory of sticking with someone for all your birthdays, bad moods, and baffling vacation choices.
My grandparents had their 60th. Sixty! Years! For reference, sixty years ago a loaf of bread cost maybe nineteen cents, and Gerald Ford’s “WIN” buttons were barely tragic ideas in a conceptual art lab. They’ve exchanged the same sequence of sarcastic remarks over slices of lemon drizzle cake for decades—but those jibes? Each one a spark, another sign that Halogen-burned love persisting, dazzling, reflecting right back at you through ninety-eight(!) combined years of shared bathroom counters.
Anniversaries. Are. Radiant.
Tacky sometimes? Absolutely! Commercialized, manipulative, insistently awkward? Surely. But beneath it all, they dare you: “Hey, do you see how BRIGHTLY this memory burns at 2 a.m. when the cat’s sick and somebody forgot the damn anniversary in the first place?” It’s stubborn hope with a burned-out filament. And yet still, year after year: FLASH.
So whether your anniversary is set to 1 watt or full blast, take a second, my dear. Bask in it. Bask in the weird, unfiltered, cornea-frying glow of real love. Or, at the very least—have another slice of cake.
(Just don’t ask me for the singing card.)