Wait… how many years have we been married?

I don’t know? Seven? Eight?

Oh my God, eight, this year is eight, shit. We totally missed the window for our seven year itches!

If year seven is an itch, then eight is a rash. Sometimes it’s helpful to think of marriage as a sexually transmitted disease that gradually evolves into a lifelong condition with chronic flare ups. I mean this in the most romantic of terms.

I could be corny and be all, eight years ago I married my best friend…but that’d be stopping short of the truth. Eight years ago I married my polar opposite, my tether to sanity, my worst enemy, my favorite sparring partner, and the sole rubik cube solver of my mind, who also happens to be my best friend. Next to my mom. But you can’t marry your mom, that’s gross.


So how did we get here? How have we made it to this point relatively unscathed and without criminal records? I’m not sure, but I have a couple ideas.

Realize that at some point, you’re both gonna suck. It’s really easy to be annoyed with your partner, stew on it for days, and by day nine of the totally fictitious argument you are having with them in your head, explode everywhere. Feelings get hurt, there are tears, confusion, blah blah. This could all be easily avoided if you both accept sometimes, periods and bloating happens, and also, some people can’t control how loud they chew food. Confession: I’m usually the suckier part of this dynamic duo.

Kids both ruin some things but make other things really, really awesome. True story, everything awesome about your life ends when you have kids. Seriously, like the second you bring them home, boom. You can’t go anywhere, you’re tired by 9pm, you worry about crazy shit, you’re irritating to have conversations with, it’s an overall shit show. But then, for us, something cool happened. I don’t know if it’s out of desperation or combined bitterness; we bonded in an entirely new way. Like a blood bond, only I was the only one bleeding. From that point on, we had a new life goal, be rad parents…even if that meant the only people who could stand to be around us was each other.

Flattery gets you everywhere… including hand-job land. There is no bigger turn on than when I catch Andy talking about how proud of me he is. I get all blushy and hot, and long story short, we barely make it home. Unless we already are home… and the kids are still up… ugh see above.

Have an emotional basket-case equal. Andy and I each have one friend, in relatively the same point in life we are, that we can go to for venting or confessional. These friends won’t judge us or our relationship, they don’t hold grudges, they offer support, and they singlehandedly hold the most damning and soul deep secrets about our lives, that we literally have a contract stating that even if we have a fight or part friendship ways, they’ll never spill our secrets, or us theirs. Thanks, Meredith.

The fact is, I know how to do lots and lots of things, you should see me shuck corn with one hand. It’s both amazing and agriculturally erotic. But one thing I have yet to master is to how to stop loving this man.

Happy eight years, Mr. Gibbons.



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