Fifteen

Fifteen years ago today, I stood before the Universe and our fmaily and friends and pledged myself to one man for the rest of my life.
I was nineteen, in luuuuvvvv (notice the difference?), and remarkably stupid.
I had no idea what roads we would travel or how hard it is to be married to one person, to wake up to them to have to stay in the same room when you're so mad spitting nails is easy.
I didn't think about the fact that, as a shy, retiring, naive girl of nineteen, that I still had a lot of growing up to do.
I just wanted.
And I had to have.
Now, a decade and a half later, I am more methodical in my decisions. Looking back on my choice then, I wonder if I would have made the same one. Would I have still become The Man's Mrs?
Yes, I know I would.
Marriage is a choice made based upon emotional longing and hormones, with a good dose of lust mixed in.
Staying married in a choice made upon affection, shared experiences, and emotion that defies all words and logic.
He infuriates me. He enrages me. He confuses me. And he grounds me.
As a Type A personality married to a procrastinator extraordinaire, we are a match made in some bizarre mad scientists nightmare.
But we fit. In some strange way, we make sense even when the rest of the world doesn't see it.
There is a spark there, a magic that is uniquely ours, and when that magic is strong, we are able to move mountains.
If we hadn't married, I wouldn't have known what it felt like to laugh so hard that I almost wet my pants, because that's what he does. He makes me laugh like no other.
I wouldn't have had someone to grieve with me when we miscarried our first child, someone who knew a part of the bone deep sorrow I felt at that loss.
I wouldn't have my baby heathens, precious and terrible, beautiful and awe inspiring. And I would not have seen that expression on my husband's face when he held each one for the first time.
Who would have held me when my dear daddy passed away and my world turned sideways and mourned the loss of that wonderful man with me?
Does The Man annoy me? Oh, gods yes! Do I plot his demise on almost a daily basis? Yeppers.
But after fifteen years, if I haven't killed him yet for one of his boneheaded mistakes, then odds are he'll live to be a forgetful old man whose main job is to drive me batty in our Geritol years.
And I'm okay with that.
Most days.
Because we still fit.
And after fifteen years, that says a lot.

(While I will not say I love you because that's just too mushy and sweet for my taste--damn it! It burns! -- I will say my life would be boring and empty without you in it. And I have never liked to be bored. Happy anniversary, babe!)