76

A few words of celebration for my wife and I. Today, it's 76 months as husband and wife. A couple days ago, I was buzzing around the house, frustrated about some idiocy at my job. My wife, without moving from the couch, where she rested bundled in cats and comforter, broke down what I should, calmed me down, and give me a whole new way to look at the problem. All done without a sweat. All done out of love and kindness.

And then as I stand there in the living room, as she explains the crux of what I'm going through with the swoosh of a Zen master, I see one of the many reasons why I married her. She's incredibly kind and level. She doesn't rescue me, but grants me a wisdom that I flail around to find when I'm upset. She's there for me. In all the world, there's no one I'd rather have in my corner than her. She knows me, from skin to soul. She loves me in a way I never thought I would know, and every day I'm struck in some small way of that. I'm sorry, my dear, I try to be more in awe but my big, dumb guy brain can't compete large portions of such wonder. We're too wired for explosions and big screen TVs and garish-colored cars driving in a circle. Oh, and boobs.

Every month, on the 19th, I try to let her know how much I love her, that I'm grateful we are together. In reality, it should be an daily thing, but I'm afraid I'll run out of words to express how I feel, that I'll run into a rut and the words and sentiment will grow stale, brittle, tepid. Love should never be bland.

Happy 76 months, my love. I hope you understand how I feel even words fail me.

As for why she married me? I exude heat, open sauce jars, and eat her pizza crusts. I'm apparently "teh hawt" and funny, too, but that's not supposed to be made public.