Eight Years

Sometimes, when I want to be snarky and don't care if I'm considered insane, I tell people that Fuzzy and I met on another planet. Most people just look at me, smile, nod, and back away slowly, when I say that.

I've made it a point not to talk about MUSH very much in this journal. Because while MUSHing is one of my hobbies, it's hardly all that I do, or all that I am. But I did meet Fuzzy on ShardsMUSH in 1994, and so, in a sense, we did meet on another planet.

The first time we ever met face to face was in November, 1994, and to this day, I consider him the only good thing that has ever happened to me in November. It's usually such a bleak month for me – everyone in my family dies in November, and my 11th Month Curse has spread to Fuzzy's family as well — his grandmother died in November, the last winter we were in South Dakota. (1997, I guess). But then he walked through my gate on a sunny November afternoon, and proposed to me later that night, and November hasn't been so bad, since then.

Today is our eighth anniversary. And while it hasn't always been easy – we fight, we retreat inside ourselves, we bitch about each other to our respective friends – it's mostly been pretty good. We've survived two cross-country moves, several job changes, one abortion, one miscarriage, and a dog with epilepsy. We've gone through several cars, too many houses, and enough computers to fill a data center without help.

He doesn't always get a long with my liberal, radical, secular humanist, ex-patriot parents. I don't always get along with his conservative, Christian, mid-Western family. But we've found common ground, and we've managed to mostly retain our individuality, within the constrains of marriage.

There are times, of course, being the type-A person that I am, that I wish we had separate apartments, because there's never enough me-space.

There are times when I remember being seven or eight and swearing I would NEVER get married EVER, because marriage is OLD FASHIONED and WEIRD.

There are times when I wish I could go away for a few months and live in a cabin on a beach and just write, and not see /anyone/ except the person whose sole job would be delivering espresso every morning.

But also there are nights like tonight, when there was a glass swan-vase with a rosebud in it waiting on the seat when he met me at work, and a card, and another card, and more roses waiting on my computer desk.

And there are the nights when I'm feeling bitchy and horrible and cruel and he just gives me chocolate and says, “You're PMSing, you'll feel better in the morning.”

Or the nights when I wake up screaming, from nightmares leftover from childhood, and he just holds me till I fall asleep.

Or the times he calls me from the grocery store eight times to make sure he picks EXACTLY the right brand of toothpaste/shampoo/tuna fish/whatever.

And mostly, there's eight years (so far) of love and laughter and learning to understand each other.

Fuzzy, I love you.

CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 Eight Years by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.