If I get married again, I don’t want new dishes. The first time I got married, everything had to be matching and new. I remember taking that handheld scanner at the department store and zapping the things we wanted to add to our shiny married life – vases and plates and platters, beer glasses and grilling tools and gadgets. All the right stuff would make us the perfect couple, charting a course together through housewares and beyond. The first time I married, I was young and idealistic and unrealistic. When things got broken, I believed they couldn’t be fixed.
If I get married again, I want a mishmash of mixed-up sets of plates from both of us, chipped and old, tokens of the perfect marriage we were supposed to have the first time. Every day when I open my cabinet to pull out a cereal bowl or a coffee mug, I want to remember the hardships of life and where I’ve been. I want us to sit at a table with jumbled place settings, plates and kids not matching but fitting together nonetheless. I want to remember that I’m not perfect, he’s not perfect, we’re not perfect.
If I get married again, I’m going to appreciate what I have a whole lot more. This time, I’ll know that cracked doesn’t mean unfixable. I will know that the things that get cracked just need to be treated with greater care.