About Plum
Listen, if you’re here for inspiration, life advice, or guidance on how to organically toss “bonkers affection” into a marriage like it’s confetti—buckle in, because hi, I’m Plum.* Welcome to my (digital) treehouse, where sappy love stories ferment in old rootcellars, and paradoxically, I’m wildly obsessed with wedding anniversaries... despite the minor detail that nobody has ever proposed to me... yet... unless you count that one time a toddler offered me his half-chewed Poptart and proposed a cartoon-marathon future together. We had irreconcilable breakfast differences. Also, Barney.
*Not my real name. Do not look for it on government documents or your local Most Eligible Bachelorettes of Midwestern Convenience Store Aisles slideshow. Plum is a legacy nickname laid on me by my little brother sometime during our “Paint-each-other-green-and-convince-grandma-we’re-aliens” phase. A bold and rather sticky chapter. (Apologies again to Grandma’s living room sofa. The color has not faded.)
I digress. Often, actually.
Which brings us to wedding anniversaries. Why am I so starry-eyed about them? Surely you think this is akin to someone with a chronic fear of swimming writing an Olympic swim blog, or an ancient woodland troll critiquing industrial design trends. But give me thirty seconds of hypothetical patience here.
Because I write about life, and lately, every time I blink, it seems some couple is either getting married, buying a goat together, or celebrating another trip around the matrimonial sun. They’re all hashtagging it—#StillNotDead #SixDecadesOfNotKillingEachOther—and every post is either earnest, absolutely bonkers, tear-jerking, or a truly inspirational hybrid of all three.
A Few Observations, then.
- If you make it to your first anniversary, you get a polite high-five.
- Reach the fifth, you get wood. (And, like, commemorative wood, not just… ok, Plum, rein that thought in.)
- Silver, gold, and diamond? I assume at that point you’ve either discovered the Fountain of Youth together or are only physically bound together by the collective duct tape of shared trauma and spotify playlists.
My grandparents did that—sixty years. Imagine sixty years of morning coffee arguments, synchronizing pill schedules, and perfecting a dance around why the TV remote is, in fact, your territory tonight. Sixty years. It’s less about grand romantic gestures and more about still sneaking in a wink.
I haven’t managed a first date much past the “so—do you think aliens have toenails?” phase. Yet here I am, typing sentimental nonsense about a lifelong inside joke whispered over mashed potatoes at every Sunday dinner.
Because—and here’s the really sappy thing—I believe in It. In enduring, ridiculous, joyful love. Even though I don’t wear rings (I have a thing about finger claustrophobia), and even though my idea of “commitment” features aggressively rewatching Parks & Rec on loop, and even though “Plum” still sounds like a joke the universe played that got very, very out of hand.
But I keep writing about these anniversaries. Even if it’s like cheering for the marathon runners while I’m still lacing up my novelty sneakers on the sidelines.
Maybe because I need to believe you don’t have to have something to love it deeply. Maybe because stories make the abstract beautiful. Or maybe just because someday I want to wake up and shout to my person (he or she or Zap the Alien Overlord—we don’t judge) that we’re old, wrinkly, and still absolutely crushing it, anniversary style.
Or maybe because everyone deserves a little sappy, plum-colored magic. Even if it’s borrowed, or just out of reach, or stubborn as a nickname you never really chose.
Happy anniversaries, lovers. Plum’s rooting for you, always.
(And Grandma’s still mad about the sofa.)
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