An Anniversary Worth Twirling For

Earlier this week, Chad and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary. We’ve been together for 33 years—long enough to share a bank account and most of our passwords—but it was 30 years ago that he graduated from law school on a Monday and then married me five days later in Pendleton, South Carolina. It wasn’t a big wedding, but it was lovely in a small-town, mildly chaotic, very-much-1995 kind of way.

There were a few traditional touches. My mom made my wedding dress, and I’ve carried that thing around in a box like it’s the Shroud of Turin ever since. The day before our anniversary, it suddenly hit me that this milestone felt a little more “monumental” than usual. So I did what any sensible person does when they’re teetering between sentiment and impulse—I called my friend Selena over at the Fish Market.

I asked her if I could get a quiet corner table, possibly drop off some flowers, and—most importantly—if carrot cake could be involved. She said yes to all of it, because Selena is a saint. Then I casually mentioned that if my wedding dress zipped up, I was planning to wear it. Because why not test the limits of fabric and dignity?

Flashback to 30 years ago: despite our wedding being a modest affair, I ordered the biggest cake I could find. Because I love cake. We got it from a woman who lived so far out in the country, her directions included things like “go over two bridges, look for a dead tree, and take the dirt road after the fork—not that fork, the other one.”

She made the top layer a carrot cake for Chad, which was sweet—and then she gave us strict instructions not to freeze it. “This is not a time capsule,” she said. “Eat the cake now. I’ll make you another one for your first anniversary.” So we did. And it was fantastic.

Which is why I was especially grateful when Selena agreed to find me a carrot cake this year. Because some traditions are worth repeating. Especially the ones involving frosting.

I had informed Chad that morning we were going out to dinner to celebrate, so when he came home, he wasn’t surprised to see me getting ready. What did surprise him was the sight of me pulling a white dress out of a cardboard box like I was auditioning for a bridal-themed episode of Antiques Roadshow.

I casually let him know that yes, I was planning to wear that dress to dinner. No pressure—he didn’t have to dress up or anything—but it might look a little odd if I showed up in full 1994 bridal regalia and he was in khakis and a golf shirt. Chad, being the good sport he is and always up for a laugh, was totally down to clown. He dusted off a suit—not the suit, but a suit—and then rummaged around until he found the original wedding tie. We were halfway to a time capsule cosplay.

Before we headed out, I made a last-minute call to my friend Alex, who kindly rushed over and snapped a few photos of us at Fish Market. Once inside, I realized Selena had really gone all out. She’d set a beautiful table for us—in the kitchen, which sounds odd but was actually perfect. Warm, cozy, and full of good smells and curious chefs trying not to stare. There were personalized menus, a gorgeous arrangement of flowers, and yes, the carrot cake made its grand return like the diva it is.

I’m not going to lie—once I got that dress zipped up, I remembered how fun it was to spin in it. You know, do that little twirl like you’re a ballerina. There’s something about that particular kind of joy—part memory, part silliness—that sneaks up on you.

I guess that’s the thing about the sentimental stuff we lug around, both emotionally and literally. We wait for some big, meaningful occasion to dust it off and enjoy it again. But sometimes, all it takes is an average Tuesday night, a carrot cake, and a twirly dress to remind you that life is pretty wonderful—even in the in-between.