Today is our nineteenth wedding anniversary. I should write something romantical. That’s what I told myself when I started to write today’s blog post. The problem with that is that after nineteen years much of the romantic nonsense has been forcibly knocked out of your head by the events that come along with nineteen years of living life.
So, to be completely factual and analyze our situation, Himself has been by my side through nineteen years of my life – longer than my mother and father combined, even longer than my dear grandfather did. When Little Man was born with so many ‘anomalies’, he loved our boy and stuck by me. When I had necrotizing fasciitis he refused to sign a DNR. When all hell broke loose five years ago he stood by me despite pressure to divorce me. He supports my writing fairly enthusiastically. He tolerates my moods (I’ve been informed that this is going above and beyond by more than one person). He tolerates my acquisitive nature when it comes to books, wigs, shoes, makeup, clothing, furniture… um… okay everything. He eats my cooking; I’m still not sure if he likes anything I make besides red beans & rice, but I know he doesn’t like pasta or meatloaf, but he’ll still eat them if I make them. He puts the toilet seat down. He doesn’t laugh at my jokes, but thinks I’m funny when I’m being dead serious. He does like quite a few movies I like. He watches Dr. Who with me. He likes country music, but will put up with my techno and punk ‘writing’ music for hours at a time without complaining until it’s actually becoming physically painful for him. He puts up with my night shift schedule since it’s the job I could get ‘in my field’. He cares about my health – probably more than I do. Of course, I care about his more than he does, so fair’s fair. He still seems to think I’m at least vaguely sexy – 19 years and 150-ish pounds later, that’s not bad all by itself. ‘Course, I think he’s still pretty cute his-own-self, and he still has the nicest butt I’ve seen.
Now, that may not seem all that romantic to a lot of people. We’ve never been on one of those supposedly romantic dates (or any dates, for that matter, not even during our less than three months of ‘courtship’) with candlelight (not a good idea to have lit candles and children) and flowers (he gave me flowers when the kids were born and he brought me a rose bush for Mother’s Day). We don’t watch romantic movies together – mostly because he makes fun of my crying at the soppy bits to keep himself from crying. He doesn’t get me snazzy boxes of chocolate for Valentine’s day – he brings home big horkin’ Hershey bars to keep in stock just in case I get a migraine, though. I think our way’s better, personally. I guess I like him being himself every day rather than presenting me with out of character niceness on special occasions.
For all that, we might do the ‘date thing’ (seriously, we have never been on a date) for our 20th anniversary. Not this year, though. This year we have an IEP meeting for Little Man and then I’m going to have to crash because I have to work tomorrow night too. But – and there’s always a song… ‘If that’s not love, what is?’