Well guess what today is?
This was our wedding day, many years ago.
Yes. We’ve aged.
Yes. My shirt is establishing that I did not hyphenate my name. Honestly? It sounded really chewy and ponderous with my maiden name in there, so yea. Don’t email me.
Also, yes I had a spray tan for this momentous occasion. So that white shirt lasted about twenty minutes.
Today, my husband and I have been married for thirteen years.
Thirteen long, wonderful, long and did I mention long but wonderful years.
We are celebrating by going out for burgers and fries tonight, as is our way.
Yesterday, we celebrated by having a fight and hating each other’s guts for about two hours straight. All of this happened while going to church and worshipping Jesus.
As is our way.
Now, granted, Brian and I don’t fight much anymore. We really don’t. As our relationship has weathered all those long wonderful long and long years, we have learned the most important rule of being hitched:
CHOOSE YOUR BATTLES, FOLKS.
This rule has been really really important. It’s right up there with:
DON’T EAT TACO BELL’S BURRITO SUPREME WITH DIABLO SAUCE WITHIN TWO HOURS OF BEDTIME.
Yesterday’s fight was inconsequential. I think the genre was about being late, which sort of is what all our fights are about. My gosh, people. Sunday mornings are hard. If they weren’t so Christian-ey, I’d say Sunday mornings are rampant with marital spats. There’s a lot of spattage in those cars heading to church.
Jesus needs to do something about that, I think. It’s his day, after all. Fix it, Jesus.
Today is a new day. I am making chocolate peanut butter pie. I also bought the hubster (who has been around all those long and wonderful and very long years) golf balls. Because that’s romantic. Balls.
And he bought me this:
FURTHER ESTABLISHING THAT HE IS WAY MORE ROMANTIC THAN ME.
But then, I opened to page one and here you go:
Wow, Romantic Book. You really pulled no punches with that one, did ya?
It’s true. When you’ve been married for so many many wonderful, long and wonderful and long years as we have… bucket lists are kind of essential. To keep us alive, so to speak. Before we die.
Also, I bought these:
Yea, these shoes have nothing to do with marriage or anniversaries. But holy expensive cuteness, IT’S GRUMPY CAT ON A BIRKENSTOCK.
(Peace to your memory, Grumpy Cat. When you passed, I didn’t even mention it anywhere. I was too sad.
But I figure you’re in cat heaven and probably giving Jesus a really hard time. As is your way. Perhaps you could talk to him about that Sunday morning situation?)
I end this really discombobulated post by providing this mushiness:
My husband does not complete me. But he strengthens me. He isn’t the wind beneath my wings because we have enough wind in our marriage (see Taco Bell rule) and I know that’s crass but it’s so true. Thirteen years in, this is a constant. A constant.
He’s not my prince. Or my savior. Or any of those saccharine romantic notions I had long ago when I thought someone would fix me.
And thank goodness, because he can really tick me off sometimes. And then I would just get all confused, because how can a Prince Charming also repeatedly ask me where things are in the refrigerator when IT’S BEHIND JUST ONE JAR OF OLIVES?
I also have it on record that I too, can tick him off. Occasionally. As is my way.
But, Brian loves God. He loves Jesus. And, with that, we are Team Bowman. As one who was regularly picked last to be on anyone’s team, I am grateful.
In the Dodgeball game of life, he picked me.
And that, my friends, is Momsie ending on a sports analogy. Will wonders never cease.