I married the first boy I fell in love with. I hadn't planned on doing that. I had experienced adoration, admiration, affection, infatuation, lust, but never love. I was in high school when I thought 24 was a good age to get married. I was 23 when I thought 24 was an awful age to get married. I got married at 24.
Once I decided marriage wasn't going to be the most horrible thing, committing to my husband didn't disrupt my life so much as embellish it. I enjoy being a wife. I enjoy that the four years we've been together feel like lifetimes and mere moments all at once. I enjoy wading through the boring parts of life with a sturdy companion.
He makes me laugh, unintentionally and intentionally. He cooks me food, partly because he'd know I'd starve and partly because he's nice like that. He keeps us on track when I become frantic. He preempts shaving since he knows my beard preference. He makes me happy more times than he makes me sad. He's, you know, not terrible. So mushy!
Happy Valentine's Day!
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