I always thought it was cool that Murray and I married exactly six months to the day that we first met: May 3rd and November 3rd.
Today, Murray and I decided to buy tickets to The Swell Season, coming to The Depot on May 2nd. We both enjoyed the movie, Once, and then we were thrilled to see the humble couple get up at the Oscars and give the sweetest acceptance speeches ever. (Thanks for bringing Markéta Irglová back on stage to give her speech after she was cut off!). I'm so glad that their song won Best Original Song because I seriously haven't gotten sick of listening to the Once soundtrack yet. I'm so excited to see them at The Depot because it's such a small, intimate venue.
So I told Murray that it was great that we were going to see this concert on May 2nd, also because it's a day before May 3rd, the day we met, and it's only fitting that we celebrate by doing something bigger than our average fare.
And then I went to program it into my iPhone calendar, to be puzzled---really, really puzzled. May 2nd is a Friday this year. May 3rd is on a Saturday. Murray and I met on a Wednesday (I purposely scheduled our first date for a weekday because then if it goes well, you don't have to wait a whole week to get together again). But even with a leap year, there's no possible way that May 3rd could be on a Wednesday one year and on a Saturday the next.
Sure enough I looked it up, and we met IRL (please note my self-deprecating tone in using that term) on May 2nd.
The good news: We're going out on a big date this year to celebrate the anniversary of when we first met.
The bad news: We didn't get married six months to the day we met. I feel like my whole world view is caving in on me.
Weren't the men supposed to be the ones who are bad with anniversaries?