After 10 Years

We met in October 1993. We shacked up in June 1996. We had our first daughter in November 2000. We bought our house in April 2001. Our 10-year wedding anniversary is today. Ten years, y’all. I have not bludgeoned him. He has not poisoned me. I have not stabbed him. He has not pushed me down the stairs. I have not gagged him, tied him up, duct taped his mouth, and stuck him in the crawl space. Ahem. After 10 years and three kids, there is not much we don’t know about one another. I would venture to say I could answer all the questions on The Newlywed Game. After 10 years, every answer he gives on that game that differs from what I think he’d say simply means he was wrong to begin with (or temporarily lost the ability to read my mind. That kicks in around year 8, y’all; hang in there).

After 10 years there is no longer the pretentious need to “show your love” normally associated with anniversaries. Screw you, Kay Jewelers. Also, we’re broke (but still together! The willingness to stay through the absolute fuckedupness that money can throw at you kinda needs to be there from day one). So, the traditional anniversary gift for 10 years of marriage is aluminum/tin. You guessed it: Reynold’s Wrap hats to ward off brain attacks during the zombie apocalypse. We are planners.

After 10 years, our safe word is “Dammit, stop; I said no.” After 10 years, I know that I will never leave him. Ever. Because I can’t risk losing his mama.

Fancy with my horse and carriage


Fancier with white people on strings

 

Mah daddy 'n' me

 

 

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