Last week, I made a day trip to see my grandmother. It’s six hours of driving. I loathe driving. It is possibly one of my least favorite activities in all of the world. Additionally, my grandmother always wants to go to Wal-Mart when I go to visit. Considering that I would rather attempt a root canal on myself than shop when we are not in the middle of a pandemic, shopping in 2021 is akin to having hot sauce poured directly into my eyes.
Therefore, by the time I pulled into the driveway that night, I was weary but hopped up on gas station coffee. I didn’t want to think about dinner. I wanted to Silkwood shower the remnants of Wal-Mart and recycled car air from my body, grab a bowl of cereal and plop down on the couch.
However, when I walked in my husband, Tony, who had worked 12 hours that day, like most days, was preparing steaks for the grill. He asked me if I wanted a beer or a glass of wine, after pouring my drink he motioned for me to join him on the deck. He asked about my grandmother, but there was no pressure for an in-depth conversation. We just sat and listened to Sturgill Simpson and enjoyed the smell from the steaks.
It was one of the most romantic nights of my life.
Although I don’t think many people would accuse Tony, or me for that matter, of being those prone to grand gestures of romance, I knew that night how deeply I was loved and I fell in love with him even more because of it.
Tony and I have known each other since we were five. Our Kindergarten coupling is a great anecdote to tell at parties or to fill space in a bio.
We’ve been together for 26 years. As of today, we have been married for 19 and we have been parents for 12. We have quite literally grown up together.
As we have grown, we have had periods where we just didn’t like each other, when we got in ruts so deep that we were unsure if we were strong enough to climb out. Marriage is certainly not always easy. Fortunately, the rocky, hateful periods have been a minority; for the most part, we have the best damn time. Furthermore, even when he drives me to the brink of insanity with his snoring or the 18 pairs of shoes he leaves around the house, it is his heart that I try to remember. It is one of the best ones to ever tick.
And, let’s face it, I can be a handful. I am ridiculously pig-headed sometimes. I’m still holding grudges from 1992. I self-soothe by rubbing my feet together at an increasing rate in the bed each night. I think that I am funnier than I am. Sometimes my talkin’ just gets away from me. I’m a neat freak. I don’t really dig the outdoors. There are times when I want to be completely alone with my books. And, I have an insatiable need to be right.
People love to say that we were meant for each other; that our relationship was kismet. Perhaps. I’m not sure if I believe in the notion of soul mates.
But, I do believe in my husband.
I believe in the deep love I have for him.
I believe in his ability to make belly laugh.
I believe that he can still take my breath away simply by walking into a room.
I believe that he will always be the Wesley to my Buttercup.
I believe that he allows me to dream big, while his hard work and determination keeps us grounded.
I believe that he doesn’t leave when it gets hard.
I believe that he loves the magical creature that we created together more than himself.
I believe that I like him.
I believe that he finds his peace deep in the woods.
I believe that his snoring may send me into a homicidal rage at some point.
I believe that he will keep me alive during the zombie apocalypse.
I believe that he is my favorite person to watch serial killer documentaries with.
I believe that every now and then we are going to have a solid Come to Jesus meeting.
I believe that our life together is even better than the one I imagined 19 years ago.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
