I cherish my wife. Probably more than she knows.
She's my rock, been there for me through the death of a parent, the loss of a couple dogs, physical trauma, scares and family dysfunction. And she still keeps putting up with me.
I'm the first to admit I'm not easy to get along with. Hey, neither is she when you get right down to it. She's a college professor with a rep of being tough. Believe me, fellow students, I understand. I feel your pain. I get lectures constantly. How to clean the toilets, where not to put things, don't belch, etc. I don't have to take notes, of course. She just expects me to learn.
But she understands me, more than anyone ever has.
We're talking the big picture, the full kahuna, the vast love. But it's the little things that count, piling up in my registry of adoration. Itty-bitty snap-shots of love, imprints stamped within my heart and tattooed upon my brain.
The other night she tried on some new Capri pants. Said she liked 'em. I asked, "But, where will you wear them?"
She gave me one of those put-upon looks--the kind that says I'm being an idiot--and replied, "Um, on the lower half of my body." She shook her head, belatedly said, "Duh."
Keeps our relationship fresh and awesomely prickly.
I can't believe it took so many years for me to find her. And I wouldn't take a single second back.
My wife makes life refreshing, exciting, always unpredictable.
I love her.
Okay, done now. Carry on, sorry for the sentiment.