Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Save the Date

Today is my eighth wedding anniversary. I married my darling husband in Falmouth, Massachusetts, at 5:30 pm in St. Elizabeth Seton church. There were many tears, a few averted fights, and, I believe I can safely say that a good time was had by all. While I can list all the things that made the day memorable, I will instead focus on why my husband is the best man ever – for me. Not for you – you can’t have him. He’s all mine.

We have a lot of inside jokes. On our honeymoon, a man fell off a barstool into the pool while calling for his wife. All these years later, we will still randomly call out “Terri” to each other. It is not uncommon for one of us to intone, “You choose poorly” or “We’ve gone plaid.” I can actually say, “Ok, I'll meet you at the place near the thing where we went that time,” and he will know where I mean. I understand him even when he says entirely the wrong thing. For example, did I throw him off the escalator at Macy’s when he referred to my pregnant body as having “girth?” No, I did not. I wanted to, but it was easier to laugh instead; not as much lifting involved. Now, I’m sure you all have the same types of jokes with your significant other, but I don’t understand them. I just understand the ones I have with mine. And, “Hey, I have a great idea for a centerpiece,” will make me laugh out loud every time.

I know I should be more modest, but I have a great rack. And luckily for me, my husband is very appreciative of it. Given the choice between saving the ta-tas or saving the planet, my husband will bid adieu to the fishies before he’d ever say goodbye to the bubbies. He could care less if I wear makeup, heels, or a skirt. In fact, he recently told me the only side effect of my wearing heels is that I walk slower. Clean, fresh-smelling, and busty, that’s really all he asks for in his wife. As for him, I could care less if he shaves, only mention haircuts when it gets to the Hawk from Buck Rogers stage, and expect ties only at weddings and funerals.

And, while he has been known to bring home flowers for no reason and he is very free with endearments, my husband knows that real romance does not come in a Hallmark card. On bad days, it may arrive in the form of a Chik-Fil-A shake. On others, it may be a Diet Pepsi, an extra 20 minutes of sleep, emptying the dish washer, or turning on the heated blanket. In our house, romance is in the thoughtful little things, not the forced big ones. Tonight, he won’t be home til almost 10. I’ll have a little cake waiting and that’s all we’ll need. (Of course, if we hadn’t spent all weekend celebrating, I’d probably want more than a cake.)

Now, I could go on and on and on about all the goofy ways my husband is perfect for me, but I won’t. (Well, just a little: he’s an excellent father, a good man, and his snoring could wake the dead, yet it doesn’t wake me.) Instead, let’s just say that unless you are on his Top Five, I’ll fight you for him. Happy Anniversary sweetie and let’s have dozens and dozens more.

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