Someone told me once that life begins at 40. For me, that should have been at 39 and 126 days.
A year ago today Julie and I got married right after a military vet and his new bride dressed like Guns n Roses, at a cute little chapel in Las Vegas. It was a low stress wedding, but I was crazy nervous at this time last year. Because there’s this thing, you know?
It’s one thing to meet people and to brave face and all that. It’s quite another to throw yourself open wide, to invite someone into the deepest and darkest places where the person you are lives without the armor of the world.
Julie and I agreed not to speak of marriage until grad school was over, but I think she knew she wasn’t getting rid of me. Once we were done, though, it took me a while to propose. The reason why might seem stupid, but it was important to me.
I’ve had a happy life. Lots of bad shit happened, but I’ve been okay. My mom sheltered me when I was young and as an adult I learned to cope. But I’m battle scarred, and I sometimes suffer to get by.
I hesitated to ask Julie to marry me because coming out of grad school I failed, and I had to take a non-TT low paying job that I moved to take with the last money I had, borrowing and overdrawing my accounts in the process. I rolled change and sold stuff to survive the first month and a half before my first check.
I used to ask “how do you do that to someone?” And I couldn’t find the confidence to invite her into my messy life.
That’s where we all have to learn, I guess. She was okay with that. And I think I finally got the job thing right.
A year in, I still sometimes forget to buy cards because we never did that when I was growing up; we saved the money for actual gifts. But if I had bought a card, I’d have written this inside:
I can’t believe it’s been a year, but I can’t remember what it was like before. A year ago today I told you that you were the light that brings color to my life. I meant it then and I mean it more now. Before I met you, I was sure I’d die alone, that no one would ever accept and understand me. I was almost okay with it. Then I saw you smile after one of my stupid jokes and I knew that I wasn’t ever going to be okay without seeing that little sparkle in your eye, without hearing that slow, gentle giggle, every day.
If I had the world to give, it would be all yours. Anything I can ever take will merely be the spoils I drop before you. But I’m just me, so I give you all I’ve got, the best I can be.
I hope it’s been a great of a year for you as it has for me. And I hope that it feels this way forever.
You asked me once what I saw in you. Silly question–what do you see in me? But I told you that I see you. I see my beautiful, funny, intelligent wife.
It took a while to get rings and a home and all that, but I knew the day I almost left MSU during our first semester but couldn’t bear the idea of walking away after I’d convinced you not to give up.
I knew that first New Year’s Eve outside Matt and John’s house that there couldn’t ever be anyone else for me. I was never going anywhere. I just wanted to be what you deserved. I wanted to make your life better, to make you happy.
I wanted you to have everything you ever wanted.
We’ve made a life together. And we’ve both lost family and friends and dreams and we’ve started to move a little slower and look at the world a little harder. But we have us. And that’s all I can ever promise.
No matter what, however the rest of our lives play out, I’ll be right here beside you to cheer, to hold you when you need to cry, to carry the heavy grocery bags and to hand you a napkin to clear the frap from your shoe. I’ll be there when you sing in your sleep, when you need someone to punch coming out of anesthesia. I’ll be there when you score a new client and when you hit a home run. I’ll be there when you laugh, when you’re thirsty, when you can’t find your keys, when the dogs soiled the bed.
I’ll always be right there, because that’s where I’m home. I love you so much. Sorry I cried so hard a year ago that I barely got through my vows. You know how serious stuff gets me.
Here’s to 100 years of me getting sappy about our love on the internet. And no, I’m not crying a little as I type this. It’s the pollen. Just the pollen.
Happy anniversary, Dr. Alexander. Thank you for loving me, for seeing me when others would look past me. Thank you for us. I love you with all my heart.
Now if only I’d bought a card, I’d have written all that, but I was never the card type. Maybe next year I’ll learn. But oh well, I’m sure Julie knows what I mean.