In the fall of 2002, a classroom seating arrangement was responsible for placing me next to a 5'5" tall basketball and baseball-obsessed Star Wars-loving teenage boy with shaggy red hair. I had no idea who he was.
Dear reader, I married him.
Two years ago today, to be exact. Alas, he didn't greet me this morning with memorized phrases from over-quoted 19th century English literature. Instead he said, "You know what I be, girl."
It's my fault. I've encouraged the gangster tendencies.
There was a time when I was sure I wouldn't ever get married. It wasn't that I didn't want to get married -- I just figured that 6'2" girls who belted out Rodgers and Hammerstein ballads while mowing the lawn didn't find husbands that easily (very loud and sporadic singing is a hard characteristic to adjust to; Wayne can confirm this... as well as our neighbours). I had convinced myself of the fact that I was going to be one of those single girls who gets a career and a golden retriever puppy and lives in an apartment in a city somewhere, spending weekends reading classic literature while drinking tea out of an old teapot with a vase of wildflowers at her elbow.
Over eight years later, I can now confirm that prophecy is not one of my spiritual gifts.
While I was thinking these single girl thoughts, Wayne was busy growing as tall as he could as fast as he could. His goal in this, however, was not for me to notice him -- it was more so his intention to improve his baller skillz. Very romantic. But, in the words of Lucy Maud Montgomery,
"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music; perhaps... perhaps.... love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath."
- Anne of Avonlea
Happy anniversary, dear.