“Are you brothers?”
We hear this a ton. Two guys, one 30 and one 40, with nearly-matching glasses and an affectionate public demeanor. His family came on the Mayflower and mine fled the shtetls at the dawn of the roaring 20s — we don’t look related. No one’s getting purple nerples at the liquor store. But it’s a question we get.
We got it so many times the day after our wedding. They asked us at Dulles, at IAH and fifteen hours later at the Argentinean customs. Our weekend camping wedding outside of Frederick had been 80% magical and 20% catastrophic – the perfect chemistry for an amazing weekend. But I couldn’t do any more talking.
So he talked for me. Filled out our customs forms, handled our passports, answered the border guards. “Who is this man who speaks for you?” Each one of those individuals now knows that the grinning silver fox in the gleaming new ring isn’t my brother. He’s not my coworker, my bandmate, my legal guardian or a buddy. He’s my husband. We’d gladly tell anyone who asked, and a whole bunch of strangers who didn’t.
Political? Sure. But mostly we just wanted to brag.