Is it totally goofy to be professing one’s love to their spouse on the world wide web? I could probably muster up the words and just tell him how I feel after four years of marriage and eight years of togetherness (absent those 3 months when I left to go look for my lost mind). But knowing how I operate, it would likely come out all garbled with a capper of “oh, and can you run the dishwasher before you come upstairs?” My expressions are more organized on paper.
So, dear Pants here goes my heart:
When I first found myself falling in love with you (30 el bees lighter and three years after I met you), I remember telling you in a downtown parking garage that you were my blue print. It was after one of those late sushi nights where you and I kept each other’s loneliness in check. I knew then that you were kind of into me too because you hated sushi. But you saw how the slippery slimy food made me dance in my chair and that was enough for you. Besides, there’s always teriyaki.
I recall thinking that night as our knees toughed under the sushi bar, that the gap between our ages was too much for me, along with your new divorce proceedings, oh and the fact that you already had children. All of it added up to mean one thing: that I will find someone just like you but without the strikes.
But the everyday pull to text you, email you, to call you, to make excuses to run into you was too overwhelming for me to ignore. But that’s exactly what I continued to do. If I just spend more time with him, I can learn more about him, and therefore be able to look for the perfect prototype.
Yeah, right. Who was I kidding? Certainly not my mother. Definitely not my friends. My incessant chatter about you, Pants – what you were doing, wearing, what you said that made me laugh, how we played golf together, went to the movies, how we went mountain biking at night, played tennis at 1 a.m., how you bought me that GPS so I would get lost when I went snow shoeing. All of these stories got on my friends’ and family’s last nerve.
Just admit it already, Brown.
I’m in love with you, Pants. And since those uncertain, self-deceptive days of being in your presence, my love for you has grown.
It’s little things that still get my attention: two weeks ago, you were outside an office building downtown. You were talking to a colleague and you were wearing a blue pin striped suit with a dark red tie. Your hands were animated. As I watched you from across the street, my stomach tightened with excitement. Pants is my husband. He’s coming home to me tonight. That hunk of burning love, that hot George Clooney look alike is going to fall asleep next to me. ME!
Or how about the other night when you were working late? Without even asking if I had eaten, you brought me home a plate of ahi, and a side of wasabi. You placed it on the counter, said you loved me and went to change out of your suit. I dusted off the ahi before you made it back downstairs.
Another little thing: You feed my secret addiction of trashy magazines. I will find a People or US Weekly tucked away in the groceries you brought home after work. I read it in hiding before company comes over. You allow me that small guilty pleasure.
The most recent “little thing” was when we had planned on having a romantic night to celebrate our four year anniversary. I was on day number two of a work crisis and instead of jumping on me to get off the phone and be present in the moment, you cancelled our evening, took Yack and me out to dinner and allowed me the opportunity to stress, emote, freak out and overindulge in one two many Saki’s. You even drove us home.
Pants, I am still head over heels in love with you for the little things you do for me, but also for everything that you are. You are the pinnacle of this happy family. And because of you and our children, I feel like I must have shoveled large piles of sheep dung in a past life to be so fortunate in this one.
What an amazing blue print you turned out to be.
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