A letter to my wife
let the good times roll
My dearest -
We’re married. Can you believe it finally happened after years of talking and joking around about it?
Welcome to being a Howell. We’re a simple breed, for the most part. Let me begin by prefacing the following as stuff you likely already know or have the general gist of about me, but I know how much you love when I reiterate, so here it goes. I’ll keep it brief.
I was not that little girl that always dreamed of her wedding; that would picture what it would look like and where the venue would be and which guests would be there and what theme would be chosen. I remember when I was younger watching that one episode of Friends where Ross and Emily are having pre-wedding issues. Monica throws out the notion to Ross that Emily has probably been planning her wedding since she was five. “That’s what we did” she said. I thought I must be defective or strange or off kilter or something because I never once imagined my wedding. I never put the pillowcase over my head, not even for the flying nun thing (this feels like a missed opportunity now). I knew for definite there would of course be dogs in my future, but a permanent human companion never crossed my thoughts. And a ceremony to honor said companion, oh no.
As I got older, I would think, yeah if it happens it happens. If I happen to find someone and get married then it’s all good, but also, if it doesn’t happen then it’s all good, too. There was no need, no rush, no expectations, no high hopes, no low hopes. But as years went on and the struggles and coming to terms with my sexuality stupidly became forefront in my life (stupidly because the older I got the more I realized it doesn’t matter in the whole aspect of life schemes), even a microscopic fraction of a speckle of thought about marriage being an option dwindled. I didn’t need marriage to be happy anyway, so no biggie.
The tra-la-la’s of life continued on and years passed and no stable relationship was ever within grasp and I was 100 percent good with this. My life became random jobs and solo adventures. Nothing was ever quite perfect, as it shouldn’t be because we need the constant guessing and what-if thoughts about life, but nothing was terrible.
Then I got that one job. That one job where I met a bunch of crummy people and it was a crummy job in and of itself, but you stood out amongst those crummy people and the crummy tasks and your personality was covered in glitter, and even though I despise glitter, I was drawn to yours. Whether we were meant to be co-workers for awhile until I moved on to the next job or whether we became friends outside of work, didn’t matter. Norah Jones brought us together and your glitter got everywhere and I couldn’t get rid of it (honestly didn’t try too hard, though. This glitter was awesome). Then there was more. Our co-worker relationship did become more, our friendship did develop outside of work and it became more, and I became more. More open to another human than any before. You threw off my perfect track record of never getting too close to people. Damn you.
People say life is hard and I can agree to an extent. Situations can be difficult and thoughts can be consuming and I never saw it getting easier, but nothing seems as bad when we’re together. You have given me so much and you make life feel easier and I’m excited for our years to continue together and for us to continue sharing the highs and lows together and for us to explore life together. I am still my own self, my own person, my own thoughts, an individual. But I prefer life with you by my side. I have found home after so many years of solo adventures and now it’s time for duad adventures.
Cheers, baby cakes. We shall live long and prosper. I love you.
P.S. A playlist to celebrate you (full of songs I know make you emotional). It’s all I have to give right now, sorry.