Take his hand, you dumbass.

Tomorrow Nutty Hubby and I will celebrate seven hopelessly smitten years together, four of them as one of those married couples you hate because they’re still all lovey-dovey in public and they haven’t tried to kill each other yet.

It doesn’t really feel like it’s been seven years, but I also don’t really feel not-quite-32 years old, so what do I know? Although I did spend one of those years in a different country, because the fact that Nutty Hubby proposed didn’t mean I wasn’t still going to ditch him for grad school abroad, so really it’s only like six years actually together together, and then when you take into consideration all the time you spend sleeping or at work…why, we’re practically strangers!

Anyhow, this morning I was thinking about this weirdo I agreed to spend the rest of my life with, and marveling at how I ended up married at all when just a few months prior to the start of our relationship I had decided that having a ring on my finger was something that really didn’t interest me anymore. And then I found myself wondering for the millionth time how the hell we even wound up together, because really, we were idiots about the whole thing. Continue reading