I’m not doing Friday’s Feast this week because the questions didn’t inspire anything in me. Anyway, I have something else I’d rather write about.
This weekend – technically Saturday – is my 12th anniversary. Our 12th anniversary. Fuzzy’s and mine. We’re celebrating tomorrow by playing hooky and going to the Zoo. Not the usual idea of a romantic day, perhaps, but romance is in the details: holding hands as we walk, the fact that he still flirts with me, flowers when we go grocery shopping, rearranging my office furniture after a twelve-hour work-day…the list goes on.
Anyway, we want to see the tigers.
We both like tigers.
As for presents – I told him not to go crazy this year, that all I wanted was flowers, and I even enlisted my mother so that he’d get something simple and not a fussy bouquet, but I saw the debit card payments and he spent more on flowers than I spent on his gift, though I have to say, his is way cooler. He almost never reads my blog, but if I tell you what I bought, it’ll be the one time he DOES read it without me saying, “Hey, go read what I wrote.”
12 years. It seems like nothing, and forever. Some days I love the whole marriage thing. Others, I still wish we had separate apartments with a communicating door. As I get closer to 40 (a little over three years), I’m becoming more torn about the whole breeding thing. I mean, there’s a part of me that whispers about having a child, and then there’s a part of me that whispers back about how I can’t even share an OFFICE with the man I’m married to, and I don’t even particularly LIKE children, but then the first part whispers back AGAIN that it’s different when it’s your own.
But back to the romance.
Romance is way more fun.
After 12 years of having to specify brands on the grocery list because he still has no clue what brands we buy of certain things, and having to always be the one who puts the toilet paper on the roller and walks the two feet from the counter to the recycling bag with HIS empty soda cans, and remembers to call HIS mother, and is in charge of all bill paying and letter writing, the obvious question, half in jest, is “are you renewing the contract for another year?”
But how could I not? How could I not be totally in love with this man who let me take the leap into freelancing even though it cut our income by a third, because he couldn’t stand to see me come home from BigFinancialCompany in tears, who tells me I’m smart and talented, even when I feel like it’s a struggle to write a single sentence, who comes with me to CSz every weekend because he’s that supportive, and who gave up his bonus last year so I could have a new laptop?
Okay, he doesn’t buy me jewelry, but if there’s something I want, he just smiles and says, “if you think we can afford it, get it,” and when we were in Spring, TX, a few weeks ago, he held up a beach towel so I could change clothes in the parking lot without flashing everyone, and he buys Ruffles because I like them, even though he prefers Pringles.
Changing your preferred brand of potato chip is real love.
And after twelve years – I should know.
12 by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.