The year was 1995, and I had just come back from being a missionary in the Ukraine. (For those of you who are not LDS, aka Mormon, that means I was kind of like a nun for a year and a half.) Five weeks after my plane landed, Rick and I got married. My wedding was not something I had dreamed of since I was a little girl, although my Barbie doll did own a wedding dress. But I have to say things turned out better than I could have imagined.
And now, sixteen years later, it's still good. Great, actually. Though the dress hangs in my closet, there's no way it's fitting over these matronly hips. And now my hair could be described as "salt and pepper," but back in 1995 it was brown all the way through, including the roots. And I didn't have wrinkles around my eyes or age spots on my cheeks. Rick doesn't look much different, although his face has aged a bit, tattoed with the wounds of living with one hormonal woman and three crazy kids. He is aging gracefully, while I am just gettin' old. But I don't hold it against him.
So today, as I look over our life together, I realize how much we are the same even though on the outside we're different. Rick still listens to Eighties music, sometimes breaking out into dance and song as he washes the dishes. And he still keeps us in stitches with his dinner table comedy routines. As for me, I would still rather be traveling than shopping. And I still hunt for treasure at yard sales and thrift stores, just like always. But most of all, we're still best friends who fell in love and stayed there.
Happy Anniversary, Babe. I love your bum. And the rest of you too.