I always joke and say that I had to travel 2000 miles to find the man of my dreams. But there’s a part of me that knows that statement is no joke. I’ve loved my husband since I first laid eyes on him. Maybe it was the horrible mustache that he had at the time (which I made of fun of within seconds of meeting him; I’m all for experimentation, but ‘staches may not be the best way to express one’s creativity) or the plethora of Hawaiian shirts in his closet, paired with stone washed jeans (and the occasional pair of jorts). Could be all of those things combined – I mean, after all, who doesn’t love a mustache-themed Luau, ESPECIALLY when there are jorts present.
He was different from the guys back home and he adored my accent. Our first date was at a Thai restaurant and I still remember the shirt he was wearing (NOT Hawaiian). He shaved the mustache within days of meeting me because I made fun of it. That’s when I knew that he had a little something for me too. 😉
We dated for a year and a half and had lots of growing pains during that time. My first serious relationship and his first relationship with a feisty Southern redhead.
When I graduated from college, he proposed and we were married a year and a half later, in Vegas.
He’s the yin to my yang and is one of the most easy-going people I know. I say we’re moving across country and he says, “Can I tell my parents first?”. I say we’re going to Belize, and he says, “Sounds good”. He’s calm, cool and collected and keeps me as sane as possible, when possible. He allows me to dream as big as I want and never questions my goals. That’s kind of a big deal. I live so far outside of the box that I need someone who can stand to be there as well. When my life crumbles from time to time and I fail forward, he’s there to pick me up and take me to Fleming’s.
And he’s so damn cute.
So, on Valentine’s Day, in honor of all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls and everything we’ve done right, I’m dedicating this post to him.
I love you more than peanut butter, Baby.