scantling | this is also a Voltaire song, you know.

And they said our love would fade
it gets stronger everyday
and they say that beauty fades
you're more beautiful than ever
and they said we'd drift away
we're still standing here
and it feels like every day is our anniversary

August. September. May. November.

The anniversary of meeting someone. The anniversary of asking someone out. The anniversary of someone's birth. The anniversary of the signed contract.

Is it all that important to mark the date? To say that another year has passed: does it matter?

According to consumerist America, the answer is obviously yes, it matters.

And according to me...

I used to hate the idea of celebrating birthdays. It seems morbid: congratulations; you're a year closer to your eventual death.

My Nell, though, comes from a family that's happy to celebrate birthdays, as if they're supposed to be replaced with a holiday in which everyone is commemorating and celebrating the person who had the audacity to be born that day.

I don't really like to make her that miserable, so I've been working – for the last year and a half or so – on changing my mind or attitude or whatever it might be, to be more accepting of their idea, no matter how nuts I may occasionally think them.

I even went so far as to agree on the plans for my own birthday's celebration – certainly not something I've done much in recent years.

But more important than mine is hers; last year her sister finally realized how much in love she was with someone from the resort we visited. This year, perhaps, nothing quite so bold happened – but it was still delightful and restful and fun.

Maybe we've had arguments; maybe there've been times enough that I've stormed off angry. But I've always returned. Every day, when the argument blows over, we're growing stronger together.

She's beautiful, you know. I've always thought that. Sometimes, when she isn't aware of me looking, I see how beautiful she's going to be in a decade, in a century – when I can look my fill of her, when I can appreciate the marks I leave on her body, in her heart and soul.

And in August, we celebrate two years of when we met. In September, two years in which we've been together. And in November – ignoring, again, my birthday – we'll sign our third contract.

We'll be signing them every November for centuries, if I have my way.