Fifty Years

Today, Yvonne and I will celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the night we met—Halloween, October 31. Friends will join us, and we’ll raise cups to our time together.

That first night, at a unique dance club, I saw a lovely young woman. "Would you like to dance?" I asked her.  

She looked me over, nodded, and I joined her on the dance floor. "I like your costume," I shouted over the band. "You're dressed as a normal person."

She smiled, "I almost wore a body stocking and came as a Q-Tip."

"My name is Ron," I said

"I'm Yvonne," she answered, smiling. "We rhyme."

I learned that she was twenty-two, five years younger than I was. After growing up in Phoenix and graduating from Arizona State University, she had moved to Los Angeles and gotten a job as an account executive with a public relations firm. She was bright, attractive, and funny. She loved to cook, shared an apartment with a friend, and probably made more money than I did. In short, she could take care of herself.

Excited about seeing her again and eager to show her that I didn't spend all my time in bars, I invited her to a Sierra Club hike the next morning. We met in Griffith Park barely seven hours later, where we ignored the other hikers and resumed our conversation without missing a beat.

I had been scheduled to have dinner that night with my friends Jerry and Niki Savin. Deciding I was on a roll, I invited Yvonne. As we sampled Niki's grape leaves and souvlaki, Yvonne spoke with my friends as if she had known them for years. When we left, Jerry gave me the thumbs-up and Niki winked.

We went back to Yvonne's apartment and watched Saturday Night Live. We laughed a lot and talked about what an amazing twenty-four hours it had been. Chevy Chase delivered the news and Garrett Morris shouted his translation for the deaf, but we didn't hear them because we were in a world of our own.

Still are. Still love it. (Still rhyme.)