It’s confusing and scary and costs, like, twenty million dollars. I remember collapsing on the bed after our reception, trying to remain conscious enough to successfully get the holes lined up to consummate the whole thing, thinking how from that moment on, everything in our life was supposed to change.
I mean, I’ve seen my share of Lifetime movies and 7th Heaven episodes to know marriage is a magical, magical thing that will either end up totally awesome and we’ll have like a hundred kids and a huge house with a mini van, or I’d end up murdered, with amnesia or binging and purging in the back of my closet.
But, when you say I Do, you do it hoping the odds are ever in your favor. And they are, at first. The honeymoon is fun and the first few weeks of wedded bliss are dreamy. Then you realize marriage is exactly like dating, only way more legally binding, and all the things that used to annoy you before you walked down the aisle are still there, plus some.
I remember laying in bed next to my spouse thinking I had the ceremony all wrong. I had wanted romantic traditional vows that had been spoken for hundreds and hundreds of years, but those vows in no way prepared me for what marriage really had in store for me.
I’ll love you even though sometimes I lay in bed listening to you snore and chew in your sleep. I gently try and nudge you to get you to roll over, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit sometimes I think about punching you in the face to get you to stop. Or maybe putting a pillow over your head. Not to kill you, just to muffle the noise a little.
I’ll cherish you even though you have trouble reading my mind. Like when you don’t realize I’m not talking to you on purpose because we’re totally in the middle of a fight, or you ignore our safe-word when I want to leave a party early. I can only say “Yasmine Bleeth” so many times before I start to sound like a crazy person and just go and wait for you in the car.
I’ll honor you despite the fact that you still think dutch ovens are hilarious and you pretend claustrophobia isn’t a legitimate thing, when it totally is.
I will remain in adoration of you, even though you start all your stories in the middle, have inexplicable holes in the crotch of all your jeans, hum when you chew, and you refer to all the household appliances as “mine.”
I’ll obey you even though you spell words like “rediculous” and “fusterated” wrong. And it gets frustrating…. and ridiculous.
I’ll keep you in sickness, despite the fact that the average cold renders you useless and you are a sympathy puker, so when I call for your help while I’m bent over the toilet throwing up, you’ll just stand in the doorway with a towel over your face throwing cool washrags and words of encouragement at me.
I take you as my husband, knowing we have no idea what we’re doing, I’ll be wrong more than I’ll willingly admit, you’ll forgive me more than I deserve and you’ll pretend that after three pregnancies, my boobs are still totally hot. And I totally love you for all of it.
As long as we both shall live. I do.