18 years. If our marriage were a person, today it would earn the right to vote. And to be drafted into the military (though sometimes it feels like it already has). And to have consensual intimate relations with others who are also . . . um, I’m gonna start over.
18 years. 6,570 days, and I haven’t forgotten how lucky I am to have her in my life for a single one of them. Well, maybe only briefly, during a handful. It’s possible that I momentarily forgot (after I learned she was okay), on that day she totaled our paid off Lumina. And I may have suffered a momentary lapse when she inexplicably threw away the spare tire to the El Camino. Ditto for my brother’s couch. Or when she threw that ninja star into one of the comic books I had thought was awesome enough to display on the wall. Or when she bid entirely too much at a silent auction and won a “Texas tuxedo” for me that I didn’t want, equipped with beaver pelt cowboy hat. Or when she backed into our driveway gate, and I fixed it, and she did it again, and I fixed it, and she did it again, and I took the damn thing off its hinges and threw it in the freaking garage where it will stay until I’m in the cold, cold ground . . . um, I better start over again.
18 years (21 if you count our engagement). She patches me up when I’m hurt. She listens to me, even when I don’t know what I’m saying. She endures and forgives my crazy bullshit. She’s my best friend, lover, partner, and teammate. She’s a thoughtful parent, a compassionate person, a great drinking buddy, and a wise old soul. I am simultaneously humbled and so, so proud to call her my wife.
As a kid, I couldn’t understand why ancient dragons or the oldest vampires were supposed to be the most powerful. But as our marriage matures, I’m starting to get it.
Happy 18th anniversary Bobadoe! And happy 18th birthday to our family of six, four of whom wouldn’t be here today if our younger, dumber selves hadn’t chosen each other. (Did they luck out, or what?)
I love you forever Erin.