Almost 30 years ago I met this guy. We were both in our 20s then, young, fit, and good-looking as people in their 20s are wont to be.
Twenty-five plus years ago, we got together. He was my rebound guy. I was coming out of a breakup, so was he, as far as I was concerned this was gonna be a fling. Then, one morning I woke up beside him in a panic. I’d just realized that I was in love with him.
Not part of the plan. At. All.
That evening I called my mom told her this dramatic news. Her answer? “Well, what’s the worst that can happen?” As usual, she was pretty much telling me to get the hell over myself. Thank you mom.
Twenty-five years later we’ve traveled the world, decided children were not part of our plan, bought a cottage together, discovered who we are, grown older, fatter… er plumper, grown wrinkles and grey hair, had our share of heartache, buried some wonderful people, saw some wonderful people come into the world, made friends, lost friends, worked, played and gotten though the drudgery that a 9 to 5 job can sometimes represent.
He’s stuck by me through 25 miserable (to me) winters (which takes courage or utter insanity, I’m not sure which – probably both).
He’s cooked for me (a much saner choice than me cooking for him), make me gallons of cocktails and annoyed the hell out of me now and again (as I have him, no doubt).
He has put up with my foibles and moodiness, my PMS and menopause, my sarcasm and, more recently, meno-brain. He’s supported me in my harebrained schemes and passing hobbies. He has stood by smiling as I bought paint at $35 a quart (kick ass paint though!)
He is my everything, the love of my life, the one thing I could not live without.
Happy Birthday M, I love you more than words can say.