Thirty Years…and Counting
People are always asking couples whose marriage has endured for their secret to success. Actually, it’s not secret at all. I am a forgiving woman. Long ago, I forgave my husband for not being Paul Newman.
Erma Bombeck
Two couples were married in Southern California within weeks of each other during the summer of 1985. One wedding took place in Malibu at a palatial private home overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The other checked in at a rented house in downtown La Jolla, located a stone’s throw from Rigoberto’s Taco Stand. One captured the world’s attention and attracted a fleet of helicopters and paparazzi. The other drew the curiosity of the bride’s family and featured a Guinness World Record of head scratching. One wedding was planned with a level of secrecy the Pentagon would envy. The other held an open house to fill the groom’s side of the aisle. One pair of lovebirds flew off the next day in a private jet to a romantic island. The other crammed everything they owned into a Volkswagen Rabbit and motored their way toward New Hampshire.
One was Sean Penn and Madonna. The other was yours truly and The Pretty Blonde. Thirty years later, guess whose marriage is still justifying their love?
Thirty years doing anything is quite the accomplishment. Thirty years of marriage, meanwhile, calls for a tour de force. A three-decade journey of love, mixed with a healthy dose of responsibility and compromise, requires the diplomatic acumen of John Kerry, the peerless ingenuity of Steve Jobs, and the no-nonsense strength of Rhonda Rousey. Born in a blanket of passion and excitement, many of the ensuing ten-thousand-plus days can exhibit all the rapture and romance of the Bataan Death March. And that’s before you get to the really hard stuff.
Team Geiger discovered the key to marital longevity early on in our relationship. And no, we didn’t find it while sucking face in the back row of the Pasadena Cineplex. Rather, we happened upon our formula for spousal success completely by accident. While treating the gorgeous blue-eyed blonde on our first date to an unforgettable meal of kung pao chicken and pork fried rice, I mistakenly left my paper-thin wallet at home. Forced to fork over the $11.37 tab herself, The Pretty Blonde signaled that not only did she trust me to pay her back, but that despite my undersized stature and oversized student loans, she had bought my dubious family history and was “all-in” on the Lee Geiger-hype. She told me later that, despite my obvious shortcomings, she respected me. And I, by virtue of her being smarter, more worldly, and half-an-inch taller than me, obviously respected her. And we’ve done nothing but respect each other ever since. And mutual appreciation and consideration is how we’ve made it to thirty wonderful years. And, God willing, we’ll both be healthy enough to make it thirty more.
Fast forward to this past Monday night, a school-night celebration of our September 14, 1985 nuptial. Seated across from me at Chez Panisse, an Alice Waters’ institution that requires a reservation be made two blue moons in advance, The Pretty Blonde wore a peaceful look of blissful relaxation. It might have been the goat cheese mixed with beets, or the white wine paired with sea bass. Either way, I knew the real reason why at that very moment she felt happy to be married to me.
I remembered to bring my wallet.