The Vows Column at 20
It can’t have been twenty years! I remember when this column started and for awhile it was my favorite – even if the couples in it were almost always too good to be real.
My marriage, which started in Manhattan in 1965, ended tragically in Los Angeles, where Beth got rid of me in 1970 – and three years later killed herself. Probably not that unusual a story – but it was the end of the world for me.
I fell in love with my husband at 21 and am still in love with him at 34. To me, love is like porn to that one congressman: I can’t define it, but I know it when I feel it. Sure, we’ve got a lot of life to go (I hope) and many things may happen, but I dearly hope he would never stay with me for money, or shelter, or safety. My parents both have been happily and productively single, and I would rather go that route than stay married to someone I didn’t love, or who didn’t love me.