I'm just going to warn you upfront — this might get a bit mushy. I opened this blog talking about just how grumpy and foul-mouthed it was going to be, and now I'm going to follow that up by talking about My Girl, my reason. I'm a master of tone.
In my defense, I did mention that I was pretty fucking terrible at this blogging thing.
But look at this nugget. She's a beaut, ain't she?
This is my wife. My very best buddy. The only person who knows exactly the right moment to call me out on all my shit, who will then will turn around and defend me with fire despite my seemingly endless array of shortcomings. She is the woman that I will never stop trying to surprise, even though she knows me better than anyone else in the world.
Plus, she's hot. Even as a marshmallow.
The day I met her, I began losing sleep. Not because she's a baller and kept me awake all night with her wild ways, mind you. Hell, she'd be in bed at 8 PM every single night if she could. No, when she showed up, she robbed me of my ability to put my head to pillow, and drift off into a stress-free slumber.
The thing is, before her? I cared about nothing but myself. This wrecking ball of a broad comes around and inserts herself into my life, and that's when the nightmares began. Which is probably what every woman dreams of hearing about themselves.
The truth is, she gave me something to worry about. She gave me something that, when I went to the darkest places in my mind, I realized that I could lose. That's how I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was in love with her.
She playfully tells me to fuck off almost exactly as many times as she tells me that she loves me. I mean, the woman bought me this dickhead t-shirt as a gift for our FIRST wedding anniversary.
She's my soul mate, and I say that without hesitation, or any acknowledgment of cliché. She is the goddamn green-eyed light of my life. She's a full-blown menace, in the most exceptional way, who provides every day that I wake with purpose.
And as she reads this post, there is zero doubt in my mind that she is silently nodding her head in agreement...
I myself read an article the other day about how marriage is a job, one you have to work hard to maintain. This was one of those "real talk" pieces, that pulled the proverbial curtain back on the harsh truth about marital life. The last line of the last paragraph of this emotional exposé read as below, including font/style:
"Every single day is a choice to stay married."
Really? Bold type and italics in the same sentence? Asshole.
I won't name the publication in which it was printed, nor the author whose opinion was so defiantly displayed. I'm not going to sit here and tell any of you how you should live your lives, or that your marriage is anything less than stellar because you have to work at it. Maybe that effort is what gives your time together meaning. Maybe it's the reason why your headboard lines up perfectly with those dents in your bedroom wall.
But I will tell you that it sure as shit doesn't have to be that way. My fourth anniversary is coming up in 10 days. And before you stereotypically shout, "OH JUST WAIT — you have no idea how hard it gets," let me stop you. I won't ever approach it with that attitude.
Because of her. Because she makes me better. And despite what she might tell you, I make her better, too.
