Truth be told, I always assumed we’d get married. Even when we were thirteen and you had a crush on that girl, Shanna, with the long dark hair and skinny legs. Even then, I figured that eventually we’d end up together.
I think we’ve always been good for each other. You’ve taught me to be myself, to let go of pretenses, and to enjoy every little moment. And in return, I’ve probably helped you in a few ways including how to recognize when you are dying and, ahem, when you are not.
We’ve bought dishes together, explored new cities, stumbled into parenthood, taught Primary classes, worked through school, discovered new music, walked miles of neighborhood pavement, counted calories, buried loved ones, bought cars, sold cars, built a house, given each other the flu, stayed up all night talking, grocery shopped, shoveled mulch, hosted concerts, weeded flowers, made friends, painted rooms, slammed doors, taken road trips, planned secret escape plans from our kids at times, discovered new restaurants, posed for pictures, wrapped Christmas presents, fought, apologized, made up, planned our futures, revised our plans, and made each other laugh.
I know that a ten-year anniversary is supposed to be monumental. I know it’s supposed to feel like we’ve accomplished something magnificent. I know that we’ve become a more and more significant statistic—the ones that stay together. I’d like to say that we’ve worked really hard to get where we are, but I feel like that’s taking credit for something that has required very little work at all. Being married to you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
Here’s to another bujillion years. I love you.