To celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary last year, my husband and I spent the weekend at a funky motel in the Catskills. We arrived Friday night, poured some wine, put on Bonnie and Clyde, and exchanged gifts. The T-shirt I gave Adam featured a bear fighting a shark; he gave me earrings shaped like shark teeth (we often have similar ideas). Then we noticed there was a fly buzzing around the room, so Adam started chasing it, doing ninja moves in his underwear.
We're 29, and we've been married since 2005, cohabiting since 2000, and together since 1997—which comes to 14 years total, or roughly half of our lives. Within a week of meeting in second-period Spanish class, we had exchanged phone numbers, met each other's parents, had our first date (we watched A Clockwork Orange with the grumpy drummer in Adam's band; it was about as romantic as it sounds), and written several letters containing the song lyrics we felt applied to our burgeoning love. Soon, we were talking about The Future, when we would make art and travel and get married. Meanwhile, we played video games and made out in photo booths and tried to out-belch each other. It was never a question: We knew we were going to be together from then on.