Alex and I have officially been married for as long as we dated, which is super weird. I’m still waiting for things to become terrible. Aren’t marriages supposed to get horrible at some point? I think I read that somewhere on the internet.
If our marriage were a baby, it would hit the following developmental milestones:
1. Bigger nastier poops
2. Bigger nastier tantrums
3. Ability to point at objects then scream when presented with requested object
Speaking of babies, we’re not having one anytime soon. Unless by “baby” you mean AWARD WINNING WORK OF FICTION THAT TAKES THE WORLD BY STORM. Then in that case, yes. That bun is in the oven.
I could reflect on all the swooning whatever of the last 730 days, but I think I’ve covered that in plenty of previous posts. Yes, Alex slays beasts. Yes, he’s incapable of finding things in front of his face. Yes, we are both financially incentivized to kill each other.
People talk about #RelationshipGoals. Want to know what mine is? To never ever become one of the “smug married couples” in Bridget Jones’ Diary. Gross. Why does everyone think getting married is some sort of Achievement Unlocked victory in The Game of Life? Because I’m really not sure I actually recommend it.
A former (worst ever) college roommate told a mutual friend, who got engaged at 27, “I’m so glad you found someone, I was getting worried about you.” Really? Because I’m worried about YOU and your peel-and-stick wall décor that says “Live. Laugh. Love” over your 19,000 family portraits. The wifey doth protest too much, me thinks.
If it weren’t for Alex and his persistent nature, I’d be fulfilling my destiny of living in a dilapidated house on top of a hill/near a swamp and casting spells on schoolkids while making art with my menstrual blood.
But I guess plans change, and that’s a good thing.
I’m too lazy to google, but I think Sheryl Sandberg said something about how the single greatest decision a woman makes is her choice of partner (or, I’ll add, whether to have one at all). That probably annoys some people– like it’s a throwback to Disney Princesses who need a man to come along and make their life matter– but I think it has more to do with all the horrible ways you can choose the wrong person.
I have a well-documented track record of choosing the wrong person. All this does is leach energy from your life force. People in general tend to steal energy from me, but having an inefficient bulb on the other end of your romantic relationship? Beyond draining.
The person you choose to spend the rest of your life with is in the perfect position to wreak havoc on your ability to do anything beyond just exist in the world.
Alex is the rare human who doesn’t steal my energy. He’s my back up battery pack, a human made of solar panels. Sometimes I just need to touch him so I can rejuvenate my will to live/get up and wash my face before bed.
So that’s why it’s exciting to hit two years of marriage. Not because Marriage = the be all and end all of a fulfilling adulty life, but because I found someone who makes me want to use clichés and listen to acoustic renditions of Sara Bareilles songs. I’m happy he has my back, does red panda impressions, and tells me when I’m viewing the world through past-shite-colored-glasses.
I recently caved to Third Love’s relentless advertising campaign and ordered a super expensive bra. They have you do this exhaustive questionnaire with all sorts of questions about your boobs. I consulted Alex, because he pays a lot more attention to them than I do, and these were his answers:
Q: What kind of boobs do you have?
A: Perfect boobs.
Q: What problems do you have with your boobs?
A: No problems.
If that’s not the height of romance, I don’t know what is.
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