Yes, someone married me.
And yes, we’ve been married for 30 years this year. October 16, to be exact. He deserves to be canonized. Seriously. He’s a saint. But then again, so am I.
Our marriage has matured with the both of us. I can’t remember a time he wasn’t in my life. We’ve been married for all of our adult lives. Which is pretty cool. And presents a problem or two.
He got to watch me grow up. With all the growing pains that entails. Sometimes, I feel jealous of couples who significant other only saw them mature or at their best. Mine got to see me at my worst, as I figured things out, as I matured into my adult self. And I got to see that for him as well.
Has it been easy? Umm, yeah no.
Our relationship was maturing along with us. Going through it’s own growing pains. The ups. The downs. Figuring things out. Forming the marriage into something good and beneficial for us both.
Am I grateful? So much.
I couldn’t imagine going through cancer with another human being. He’s been a rock. And so supportive he gives it new meaning. My recovery from cancer and the treatments that kill cancer- and me- has been smooth because of his unwavering support. Plus, he loves me and my new body. He loved me and my old body. He just loves me.
You can’t know what it means to hit 30 years with the man I have. It’s exciting, comforting, and so fucking awesome. He’s so fucking awesome.
And no matter what, it’s still the two of us against the world.
Here’s to 30 more. If my body is willing! I’d love 30 more.