So, it’s anniversary week in the Haus of Eville. Seven years of wedded bliss. Even more impressive is twenty years
together. I have officially been with
POF for over half my life. Amazing. I
don’t do the mushy ooey gooey stuff much, and you won’t find me posting my
undying love for him on Facebook anytime soon.
But, it’s a milestone and one that deserves recognition.
See, the thing is … he’s a Scorpio. So he ends up being a self-centered ass
sometimes, without even trying. The
world revolves around his schedule. And
85% of the time, I am totally okay with that.
He’s a musician so half of his brain is always occupied with a melody or
a lyric or something band/music related.
He spends a lot of time on music, and that leaves not a lot of time for
me and the Minion sometimes. And that’s
okay. Because he’s an amazing musician and
it’s just part of who he is. But it’s been a long 20 years.
Marriage is hard.
Relationships are hard. We’ve had
our good times, and we have had our share of bad. We started out as kids together. Made the college journey. Entered the young twentysomethings getting
their first place together phase. And
now we are the old married couple with the kid.
It’s been quite the adventure.
We’ve had the band road trips and the staying up all night. We’ve had the sex, drugs, and rock n
roll. And we’ve had the downward
spirals. We’ve dealt with loss and grief
and anger and addiction. We’ve built a
lot of memories and made a lot of mistakes.
But we are still here, still together, and remarkably, we still actually
like each other. Sometimes for several days in a row.
He can make me madder than anyone I have ever known. No one pushes my buttons like he does. We’ve had some crazy arguments over the
years. Never ever anything physical
toward each other, but there has definitely been some loss of property over the
years. Apparently, no one else can make
him quite as mad as I can. Imagine that.
But he loves me for me.
He doesn’t care if I am a size 8 or a size 20, he still thinks I am
beautiful. He makes me laugh like no one
else can. He gets my warped sense of
humor. He puts up with my nagging. He loves my wacky family. And when he and the Minion are cuddled up on
the couch together, there’s no better sight. Also, he's always up for watching Star Wars, which in our house could possibly be daily. He always gets points for that.
Yes, I complain about getting up at 4:30 in the morning to
pack his cooler for work. But I do
it. I don’t have to. He doesn’t make me. He could easily do it himself. But I like making sure he has a good lunch
and writing him a little note to leave on top for him to read before he
leaves. Granted, most Wednesday morning
notes involve a VERY poorly drawn camel with the words “it’s hump day woot
woot!”, but still.
And yeah, I get aggravated because the dishes pile up in the
sink as he is apparently incapable of putting them in the dishwasher. But then I remember that even if he does put
them in there, it’s still not the way that *I* put them in there, so I will
just reload it anyway. And honestly,
after seeing me do that a few times, I can see why he would stop attempting it.
And just when I get to the best part of the book, of course
that’s when he decides he wants to talk to me about something. But then, I always need to discuss important
(or very unimportant) things with him when football is on, so it balances
out. There may or may not be a
correlation there. I admit nothing.
There are times when I have questioned our relationship,
wondered if it was worth it. Been tired
of his bullshit. But even on the worst
day, I have never been able to imagine my life without him in it. It’s just not possible. So as much as I might gripe and complain, the
truth is, I love the man more than breath.
He’s the peanut butter to my jelly.
The peas to my carrots. He may be
a pain in the ass, but he’s my pain in the ass, and I’d be lost without him.
That’s what makes me hang in there. Makes me know with every fiber of my being
that I am in it for the long haul. Makes me pack that cooler with food that won’t
kill him. Makes me smile when I hear his
voice and makes my stomach do that little flutter thing when he walks into a
room. There’s no one else quite like
him. And no one else I’d rather spend my life with.
So there. Mushy
gooshy love stuff. It still doesn’t mean that some days I find it a miracle
that I haven’t brained him with a frying pan. Here’s to twenty more years of
exasperating, exhilarating, odds defying looooove.
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