Today is different.
Normally, near the middle of November, the nights would be getting darker earlier and there would be all-around less light to guide our way.
Today, though, there’s a bit of a hiccough in that whole less-light thing.
Mostly because of all the candles residing on the birthday cake belonging to my wife, known to me as She Who Must Be Steaming Mad Right About Now.
I really shouldn’t make old-age jokes about her. I really shouldn’t.
I think I can still outrun her, though. In a sprint. If it goes longer than a sprint, I’m a goner, as she’s definitely got the stamina to last longer in that sort of race. Still, when you’re running for your life, you never know what sort of reserves you (and by you I mean I) might find.
It’s tempting to note that she is, as of today, a year older than I am. After all, I don’t turn her age for another seven days, 168 hours, 10,080 hours, 604,800 seconds.
That’s a big number, 604,800.
Must be a loooonnnggg time. It’s okay, though, because I like older women.
But there’s more to She Who Must Be Itching To Get Her Hands Wrapped Around My Throat The Sooner The Better (For Her) than her age.
In addition to being one of the premier obstetrician/gynecologists in the southeast, she’s also an amazing mother and wife. And I’m almost positive that she’s single-handedly been responsible for the upsurge in Nordstrom stock over the last couple of years.
Dressing well hasn’t always been a priority for her, but I well remember the first time I ever saw her decked out in an expensive, one-of-a-kind outfit.
I was standing at the end of an aisle, next to a very scary dude wearing an odd collar. An organ began playing and, with each note, managed to drag my heart rate higher. My best man, The Principal, stood next to me and had to remind me to breathe. I’d forgotten.
When she first walked out into view, I realized something else: I’d actually forgotten how beautiful she was. I hadn’t seen her in maybe 12 hours, but the last glimpse of her in no way prepared me for the vision that approached down the aisle. I thanked my lucky stars that I’d found her and she’d found me.*
This next bit isn’t really a tangent so stick with me. My Dad told me that he used to call his mom on his birthday to thank her for having him. I’m going to steal that idea. I think it’s about time to call my mother in-law and let her know how grateful I am that she had the foresight and vision to bear into this world someone wonderful who thought I was the same.
She’s not perfect, my wonderful She Who Must Sometimes Be Tolerated, But More Often Be Celebrated, but that’s part of the fun. Finding her jagged places and fitting into them with mine, sanding down the bits that don’t fit and glueing those that match.
So tonight I’m going to give thanks for her as I light a candle, and another candle, and another candle, and another candle. . . Well, you get the point.
Happy birthday, Sweetie. Let’s go have some fun.
*Although right now, I get the feeling it would be a better idea if she weren’t able to find me. Maybe once she cools off a bit. After the heat from the candles dissipates.
Welp. That’s just going to make it longer.
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