Anniversary of the "r"

Exactly two years ago, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror in a swank hotel suite, leaned forward, and looked for it: some sort of sign, or maybe a tag or bar-code revealing the newest part of my identity that had been created by the events of the day before.

Wife.

I turned my head a couple times, scrunched my nose and forehead, made a few more faces. No sign of it. I found no visible mark giving away the fact that I was now the proud owner of a new and shiny title, that I had finally achieved a relationship status worthy of cramming that "r" in between the two letters of "Ms." But wow, did I feel different. I was giddy and at peace all at once. It was like I had just received a lifetime guarantee on... well, life.

And as far as I've been able to tell over the past two years, that guarantee was basically that life will be awesome. Yes, awesome really is the best word for it. I thought about saying "perfect," but that's not really true. Things still can (and do) go wrong, but we're able to get through and grow from the struggles, and are usually filled with awe when we see how everything comes together in the end. Life is awesome. And my husband is an awesome gift...

Homeboy makes me laugh like no other. He's the perfect extroverted balance to my touch-and-go introversion. He makes a mean crock-pot of beans, and he trained himself to like olives and pickles because I love them on the Subway sandwiches we split. He's spent the past twelve years or so learning to interpret my nonverbal language, so now when I'm too upset or annoyed or sad to put things into the proper words, he can do it for me. He makes flying on planes less scary. He understands my need for chocolate and the occasional rap music binge when scanning through radio stations, and he judges neither. He is a man of science and faith, and he's learning to heal people. I love him for these reasons and for countless others.

Happy anniversary, Dr. D. Thanks for the "r."