Fifteen years ago today, Scott and I married, after dating for 3 1/2 years. We have been best friends for better than half my life; and while many, many things have changed over the years, that has not, and I am so grateful that’s the case.
Ours is a marriage of equals. We are equally smart (except I’m a teensy bit smarter); we’re equally funny (except I’m actually funnier); we are equally prone to be cranky (although I’m less moody). And he’s as likely as I am to have made the above statements about his life partner, if only he’d thought of it first.
(He’s wishing he kept that blog going now.)
My Scotty is possessed of many fine qualities. Nobody makes me laugh more, or harder. Nobody takes better care of me and our furry kids. There’s nobody’s judgment I trust more. He is…ahem…highly skilled in ways that I shall not detail here, because there are probably public decency laws in force, but I’m sure you catch my drift. And beyond all that, he’s pretty easy on the eyes. I knew I had a keeper when I met him, and I’ve held on tight ever since.
I have long been under the impression that I was first in Scott’s affections, but recently I’ve been given to understand that I do, in fact, have some competition. My beloved happens to be an excellent cook, a talent he’s really discovered and expanded upon in the last 5 years. Early in our marriage, I did all the cooking, and I still cook the same 10 things I always did. I do them well, but I am not one to go looking for new recipes or new techniques. Fortunately for me, Scott is.
He asked for a somewhat spendy roasting pan for his birthday in January, and he has used the hell out of that thing since. But recently he decided to go all out and make prime rib in our very own kitchen. I think the entire process took him 8 hours, but the results were delicious in the extreme. So delicious, in fact, that my beloved was moved to proclaim, “I would marry this if I could,” after taking a bite.
Seeing that bigamy is illegal in our state, I knew I was probably safe, and I’m really not sure how a rib roast would sign a marriage certificate anyway. Maybe they could have a common-law meatage? I really don’t know.
Even 3-day-old leftovers of the meal inspired him to comment, “I would kill for this,” and while I think it’s important for couples to know each other’s boundaries, I have to admit, the rib romance has me slightly concerned. I mean, clearly, he won’t kill for me, because I have given him list after list of deserving targets, and they’re they are, still wandering the earth, annoying me. I see how it is; I know how I rate, now.
I confess, I’m a little taken aback that my man would choose to dally with hot, red-blooded, hunks of meat; I rather thought if anyone was going to go there, it’d be me. But at least when your true love is infatuated with cooked beef, you know where he is at night: in the kitchen. As a tolerant, self-actualized, modern woman, I try to be understanding. It gets me fed, and you have to make compromises in all marriages, right?
Happy Anniversary, Honey. I love you. Thanks for putting up with me all these years; I’ll be happy to let you do it for another 50.