This week Dave and I are celebrating four years of blissful matrimony.
Four years of: "You don't have to talk so loud... I'm standing right here."
Four years of: "Speak up, I can't hear a word you're saying!!"
I'll let you decide which quote belongs to whom.
Four years of quibbling over toothpaste (whether or not the tube is truly empty) and the proper way to load a dishwasher ("Cereal bowls go up here, like this... hellooo!"). Four years of discussing how many lights need to be on at any given time. (Dave says one light at the most, and only if it's absolutely necessary... which, incidentally, is also up for debate.)
Not to mention four years of what I affectionately call GlobalTHERMOSTATnuclear War. I've been working on a post about this on and off for months, and very soon I'll be hitting you between the eyes with our ongoing... uh, heated... exchange about the temperature in our home. (And after you read it, you'll be amazed that we've stayed married this long.)
For four years we've been meeting in the middle about money (Frugal McDougal married Spendy Wendy)... supporting one another's career paths (long hours and weird schedules)... and above all, chaperoning our kid from childhood into adolescence, which is a constant tag-teaming effort to ensure that he comes out on the other side a normal, happy human being and not a sociopath.
Through all of this, Dave holds down the fort and lifts up my spirits. He's smart as hell and wickedly funny, though most people don't know that about him. He listens and listens and listens AND LISTENS to all my boisterous blathering—and then, when he finally gets a word in edgewise, he's always diplomatic (whether or not I deserve it), and he always says what I need to hear (whether or not I like it).
He supports everything I do—especially my writing—but he hates being the center of attention... which means he's reading this and can't decide whether he's moved or mortified. (My money's on mortified.) He's the most patient person I know... and he never, ever expects me to be anyone other than exactly who I am. To paraphase the song by Blessid Union of Souls: He loves me for me.
This is where I should post one of our wedding pictures—but I can't bring myself to do it because, while Dave looks dashing and handsome, I look like Shamu in a beaded jacket. So instead, here are a few pictures of my groom about 40 years before we fell in love: