A few Halloweens ago, Kyle and I attended the Cleveland Witches Ball. It was a fancy shindig, to be sure, and was Danse Macabre themed. It was formal dress, so Kyle went in tuxedo tails, a bad-ass mask, and the sexiest guy-liner. I wore something black, witchy, and ballgowny, but that’s not important. All eyes were on Kyle because, my god, that man is beautiful.
Fitting in with Halloween, the tables were covered in candy. As I was on a Mini-Gobstopper kick, I took as many as I could find and stuffed them in my cleavage. Ballgowns don’t have pockets; we do what we have to do. Throughout the night, I would empty the supply and find another table to replenish my hoard.
In all, we had a wonderful night. The Ball was held in an old Masonic Temple, and when the night wore on and we got bored, we did what we do best–explored. At one point we found a second ballroom that was empty save for a grand piano on the stage. We, of course, stood in the dark and danced to the music filtering in from the room the ball was actually held in. Then, for fear of being stabbed and stuffed in a closet, or sacrificed to the Day-vil or something that happens to stupid people who secretly wander around Masonic Temples at Halloween, we rejoined the party.
But here’s the memory I fondly recall: The music was terrible. They played very traditional Halloween music, but for being a formal ball, it was very awkward. Still, this didn’t stop Kyle and I from making the night ours. Regardless of the music that played, Kyle and I pressed our bodies together, wrapping each other in our arms, and slow danced the night away, only separating long enough for me to pull Gobstoppers from between my breasts and pop them into my mouth.
Let me be clear, they played music like “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” by Bauhaus, which is cool, but not a song one lovingly sways to at a ball. But there we were, staring into each other’s eyes and smiling adoringly as if we were sharing our first dance at our wedding all over again.
And this, my dear readers, is what I want to impress upon you. Kyle and I have, for nearly 21 years, been literally dancing to our own songs that only we can hear. Regardless of the chaos happening around us, all I see is Kyle, and all he sees is me. Sure, there are fun people along the way, but the truth of our marriage is that we might as well be on another planet because there’s really no one but us.
I’m bringing this up now for two reasons. The first is that our 18th anniversary is Sunday. Yes, our marriage is finally old enough to vote. I always enjoy taking this time of year to make childish “nyeh” noises to all of the people who told us we were stupid for getting married. Oh, we do dumb shit, but I believe time has shown this wasn’t one. So… ha ha! Take that, nay-sayers!
The second reason, sadly, is less fun. I’m definitely not getting into details, but let’s just say fidelity is being called into question by a third party. Let me also say that, while we know the story behind this accusation is a serious one, we’re both laughing our asses off. Sis is way off the mark. The “proof” of infidelity is something Kyle and I did together, laughing the entire way. That’s what we do. That’s who we are.
Listen, it’s hard for people to understand unless they see it first-hand because love like Kyle and I have is supposed to only happen in fairy tales. We’ve made a life and a family on the foundation of our weirdness, and the proof (the real kind) is clearly visible when we’re together. No one infiltrates this family. We’ve weathered our storms and come out stronger for it. Anyone who doubts the strength of our bond obviously hasn’t witnessed it. So, please forgive us if we aren’t moved. We just know better. Bullshit like this doesn’t reach us on our plane. Sis gonna squawk about “inappropriate,” but Kyle and I are just standing in a crowded ballroom, dancing slowly to a song only we can hear, smiling into each other’s eyes, and eating cleavage candy. We’re not even missing a beat over something so off-key.
The first, the only,
Mrs. Kyle Thomas