Worst Husband Ever (Happy February 13!)
After over seven years of buying flowers for you, I still struggle to tell the difference between mums and daisies. I guess I'm not a very good husband. I keep telling you this and you keep ignoring me. That's very kind of you.
The mums vs. daisies issue rears its head this time of year. You want us to celebrate Valentine's Day. I'd rather celebrate Feb. 13. Also, I have to work tomorrow night. That's why I was trying to figure out what was what while looking at floral bouquets this morning. We both often bemoan how we're not alike. You know exactly what a mum is and what a daisy is. I want you to eat something other than nachos when we go out to eat. Or at least now and then.
Last night, you hit the nail on the head as we were going to bed. It's not our differences that make us a great couple, it's all the similarities that get overlooked. We like the same restaurants (even if we order different things). We like the same types of restaurants. We'd rather go look at open houses than go out on a fancy date. Fancy doesn't really work for us. We just want to do life together.
At the end of it all, after all the romance and wooing, that's really what marriage is: You get somebody to do life with. They don't advertise that and it doesn't really fit on a Hallmark card, but what you get at the end of all the ooey-gooey romance is someone to go to the grocery store with or to yell at when you're having a bad day. Not that THAT ever happens.
We're good at doing life together. Damn good. When you came back from your last rotation, we'd forgotten that. We thought we had to do big dates with each other. We put pressure on ourselves to enjoy *doing* things together. We felt awkward around each other. For the last year and nine months you've been in physician assistant school, learning how to ignore me and study your books. I've learned how to play video games and how to be ignored.
But you only have two six-week rotations to go. And we're hitting our stride again as a couple. We danced a little to Adele, singing at the Grammys, when you came downstairs last night. We cuddle. We talk about our dog incessantly and annoyingly. (An aside: She was scared of the helium balloon I purchased for you today. Seriously. Stared at it the whole car ride home. I'd put the photos I took of her online but this app I'm using to type this blog isn't fabulous).
We're back to talking about our future again and not just talking about our dog. It's good to have you home from rotations and PA school. You're a kind, loving, thoughtful, beautiful woman, according to that possibly drunk guy outside of the Italian restaurant we went to Friday night. He's not wrong. I know you best and for better or worse. It's mostly better.
You have to put up with a lot as my wife, and the world should recognize that and give you some kind of a medal or citation. For instance, I'm still going out for buffalo wings tonight with Matt and our roommates Dan and Molly. Like I said, I'm not a very good husband.
The mums vs. daisies issue rears its head this time of year. You want us to celebrate Valentine's Day. I'd rather celebrate Feb. 13. Also, I have to work tomorrow night. That's why I was trying to figure out what was what while looking at floral bouquets this morning. We both often bemoan how we're not alike. You know exactly what a mum is and what a daisy is. I want you to eat something other than nachos when we go out to eat. Or at least now and then.
Last night, you hit the nail on the head as we were going to bed. It's not our differences that make us a great couple, it's all the similarities that get overlooked. We like the same restaurants (even if we order different things). We like the same types of restaurants. We'd rather go look at open houses than go out on a fancy date. Fancy doesn't really work for us. We just want to do life together.
At the end of it all, after all the romance and wooing, that's really what marriage is: You get somebody to do life with. They don't advertise that and it doesn't really fit on a Hallmark card, but what you get at the end of all the ooey-gooey romance is someone to go to the grocery store with or to yell at when you're having a bad day. Not that THAT ever happens.
We're good at doing life together. Damn good. When you came back from your last rotation, we'd forgotten that. We thought we had to do big dates with each other. We put pressure on ourselves to enjoy *doing* things together. We felt awkward around each other. For the last year and nine months you've been in physician assistant school, learning how to ignore me and study your books. I've learned how to play video games and how to be ignored.
But you only have two six-week rotations to go. And we're hitting our stride again as a couple. We danced a little to Adele, singing at the Grammys, when you came downstairs last night. We cuddle. We talk about our dog incessantly and annoyingly. (An aside: She was scared of the helium balloon I purchased for you today. Seriously. Stared at it the whole car ride home. I'd put the photos I took of her online but this app I'm using to type this blog isn't fabulous).
We're back to talking about our future again and not just talking about our dog. It's good to have you home from rotations and PA school. You're a kind, loving, thoughtful, beautiful woman, according to that possibly drunk guy outside of the Italian restaurant we went to Friday night. He's not wrong. I know you best and for better or worse. It's mostly better.
You have to put up with a lot as my wife, and the world should recognize that and give you some kind of a medal or citation. For instance, I'm still going out for buffalo wings tonight with Matt and our roommates Dan and Molly. Like I said, I'm not a very good husband.
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