Now that the hoopla that is Valentine’s Day is over and you can buy chocolates in heart-shaped boxes for 50% off, it’s time to move on to the good stuff.
Seven years ago today, Hubs and I decided to get hitched.
Eight-and-a-half-ish years ago, we decided, independently, that we wanted to get married, to each other actually, we just didn’t tell each other about the whole marriage thing until later, when the whole will-marriage-talk-freak-her-out and can-I-fart-in-his-presence phase had lapsed, and seven years ago, we made it legal. Our story in a nutshell. Try not to swoon.
O. M. G. You be trippin’ if you think that’s it. Homey don’t play that.
When the preacher asked if I take this man, I said, “I do.” (Luckily, Hubs reciprocated. Any other response would have been awkward.) I loved him enough to take on his name (I mean, it has the word “butt” in it, was there really any question?), we checked the box for the 80-year-package (it came with 1-8×10, 2-5×7, and 9,597,135 wallets), we grew a couple kids (without worrying whether our looks would clash) (P.S., They don’t.), and we’re still having fun. He has approximately eleven habits that annoy me, and I’m fairly certain my number would be in the triple digits, but I can cook, so it’s a wash. He had me from our first real conversation, and I didn’t stand a chance. He insists that bragging rights are his, because I don’t remember the first time we met, and he clearly does. When he puts away the dishes in all the wrong places or gives me first pick out of the assortment of gourmet cupcakes he brought home or teaches his son the finer points of basketball or nuzzles his daughter before the sun comes up, I fall a little bit more in love.
Sure, I could tell you about the times he sets his alarm for 5am and doesn’t get up until 7, or asks me to iron a shirt five minutes after I should be herding Bug out the door for school, or follows me around while I do chores, offering Bean up like a sacrifice and saying, “She pooped.” (That’s only three; I can outline the other eight-ish on a less-romantic day and probably will, if only because Hubs doesn’t read my blog.)
But we work, even though the beginning was a little bumpy, and even on the days when I’m short on sleep and he’s short on time. We work, even though he wishes I washed a load of whites more often and I wish he knew where the spatulas go, even though he wishes I didn’t say half the things I do (particularly in public) and I wish he made more time for conversation (without the television on).
We work, not because we’re still in love, but because we can’t help being a little bit more in love today than we were yesterday. It certainly helps that he is the most impressive man I know, and that I will do the chicken dance without warning.
Seven down, seventy-three to go.