Hubby’s birthday is tomorrow – Thursday, February 25th.
He will be 48 years old. We met in 1985, when he was 23 and I was 21, and we married two years later. We have been married half his life, and together longer.
I love this man. I loved him when he was a baby-faced young guy who wore a thick gold chain nestled in the chest hair exposed by his partially-unbuttoned tabbed-collar shirt.
I loved him when he was a confident, eager young sales rep making a tiny base salary that we thought was ‘the jackpot.’
I loved him through multiple transfers and even a long-distance move.
I loved him when we went on trips all over the world together.
I loved him when he started to go gray at the temples.
I loved him when we went through hell and back.
I love him when he sings, when he tells stupid jokes that no one really gets, when he watches the dumbest cheap horror movies ever made, when he gets together with his brothers and tells all the old stories over and over again, and even when he dances. God help me.
I love him as a grandpa.
I’ll love him until I die. And I hope I go first, because I don’t ever want to live without him.
Happy birthday Bill.