November 9, 2013
Knight in shining good-with-mousetraps.
I used to think you'd be tall, used to picture you sort of swarthy and indefinitely, you'd ride in on a trail of white rose petals that I'd collect, dry, and save until I could show our daughters how gallant you were.
Now, I think it would be nice if you weren't afraid of mice and ate donuts with me in bed.
I don't want one of those flower things around my head at our wedding because I think they're stupid. I don't want a fancy barn or a fancy dress that day, I want you, me, white linens, a few twinkle lights, and red velvet cake. This seems like the perfect time to add that if you shove that cake in my face, I make no promises about our private party later that night. I'm talking hit the sheets, I'm out like a light. You were warned.
I used to want you to be a piano prodigy, a doctor, billionaire, model citizen, and the winner of a Nobel Prize, but now, I really just want you to whisper funny comments in my ear at church and be okay with egg salad sandwiches for dinner.
I sleep comfortably alone on my queen-sized bed and it's confusing to me that I'll have to sleep next to you one day. I don't like sharing my bed, but ON MY HONOR I'll never make you sleep on the couch. Because when I was sixteen, my mother told me that's an easy way to keep your problems unresolved. So welcome, you. Get cozy because you're not going anywhere.
I'm good at doing dishes, even better at asking for tickle-back-turns. I like baseball caps and Boston Cream Pie. Do you like what I'm putting down? Also, what should I plan on getting you for Valentine's Day, because I feel like that answer will be useful for the rest of my life. Hint: I like Lip Butter and swanky art museum prints.
I used to pray for you to come. I used to pray for a lot of things, actually. Things that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with all the wrong men.
Recently, I've changed those prayers to fit the mold of "please make me the woman I need to be" and I can feel it working miracles on the both of us already.
I've come to a realization lately, as certain events have transpired, that I am terrified of getting married. The other day, I couldn't commit to dinner with this guy because I'm such. a social. mess. So, when I commit to you, I mean what I say, and I expect you to do the same. Promise me our only secrets are Christmas mornings and when I ask for a kiss, don't think twice. Unless I have a cold sore (is this a good time to tell you that I get cold sores?).
I don't want to marry my best friend because I don't need another one of those. I need a you. I want to marry the man who loves me because my intellect stems from years of collegiate study. The man who makes fun of me for wearing socks to bed and doesn't question the fact that Taco Bell is where I want to be on Saturday nights. The one who loves me because he's fought to do so. Because I'm a tough broad who's hard to catch. Got more problems than a three-legged war horse (no idea where that analogy even came from, but it seems pretty messed up) and I'm running, fast, from you. So speed up and make sure I'm worth catching, would you? Be my fourth leg. Comb my hair when I've got the flu. Build all of the IKEA shelves and be unabashedly invested in a life that you want to include all of me.