Memories of My Grandparents 60th Wedding Anniversary
So there I was, standing in the middle of my grandparents’ living room on their 60th freaking wedding anniversary, already three mimosas in and teetering on the edge of an existential meltdown. You heard me right. Sixty. As in, six zero. As in, literally thrice the average lifespan of my last five relationships combined—and yes, I counted the Tinder match who texted me “hey” for two weeks and then ghosted.
And do you know what sixty years of marriage even looks like up close? Spoiler alert: It’s not glossy Instagram feeds wrapped in fairy lights or poetic SONNETS etched into willow bark. No. It’s a sea of beige orthopedic chairs, a lemon chiffon cake capped with shakily-placed candles, and the kind of sage marriage advice that includes, “Don’t go to bed angry… unless it’s too late for shenanigans.” (Guess who gave me that gem? Grandpa, of course. That old rascal.)
The evening was a fever dream of stories, half of which veered off because Grandma would correct Grandpa's retelling every single time. (“It was 1965, not 63, and you were wearing that ugly hat from your bowling team.” “Ethel, it was a very smart hat, and besides—”). Narratives ping-ponged across the generations. The grandkids—me included—exchanged incredulous looks over deviled eggs while our parents snuck second helpings as if enduring true love’s legacy boosted metabolism.
So, confession: when I got the invite, part of me wanted to politely RSVP 'Sorry, have a previous engagement with my existential dread,' but obviously, that’s not a real excuse. I’d never miss it. Not for the stack of Marvel movies I’ve been meaning to rewatch or even for a late-night drunken karaoke session—but ask me again in another ten years. Because let’s be real: stuff like this? Kind of sacred. Kind of impossible.
I looked at my grandparents—really looked at them—as they held hands (wrinkly, veiny, sweet) and cut that lemon cake together for the sixtieth time. You’d think sixty years would morph a couple into two sturdy oaks—mature, solid, tame. Instead, I saw two slightly-dented, deviously-grinning adventurers who’ve just made peace with losing the map.
For dramatic effect, let me just say, wow. Sixty years. More seasons than “The Simpsons.” More plot twists than my entire love life (which lately involves more swiping than actual romance).
And what keeps them ticking along, exactly? Here’s my hot take: it’s not the big, sweeping gestures. It’s not anniversary cruises (#sponcon) or Pinterest-worthy vow renewals with flower crowns. Nah. It’s the way Grandpa stirs three sugars into Grandma’s tea without being asked. The way Grandma tells everyone at the table, “Look, your granddad let me sleep in today—even though the dog peed on the rug, and the canary threw itself off its perch again.” The sitcom life, basically, minus any ad breaks, just the beautiful, repetitive grind of the every day.
Are there secrets? Maybe. Does it matter that Grandpa thinks TikTok is the name of a new heart medication? Did Grandma really mean to throw out his fishing hat back in ’71? Did anyone actually eat the Jell-O salad? We may never know.
But for that night, the air turned thick with the sharp, slow burn of nostalgia. The house shimmered with laughter, endless refills of cheap chardonnay, weird '60s slippers shuffling in the hallway. And me—okay, maybe a little glassy-eyed—watching two legends play their long-game with an affection that would flatten any Netflix Rom-Com. Take that, streaming algorithm.
So yeah. Next time you see on Facebook that someone’s managed to survive—er, I mean, celebrate—decades of marriage, maybe don’t just hit the clapping emoji. Maybe call your person, your grandma, your goldfish, whoever, and thank them for hangin’ in.
Because six decades in, nobody remembers which year the ugly bowling hat appeared. But holy crap do they remember who was brave enough to wear it.
Here’s to 60 years, to awkward slow-dances, to lemon cake, to memories spun so tight you could trip on them if you aren’t careful. And here’s to you, Grandma and Grandpa. Show-offs.
fcking-a. That’s love.