Twenty-one years ago, at the age of 21, I married my best friend, my soul mate, my prince.
Sappy, but true.
I was 18 when we met. Just a young pup, but already on the rebound of a broken engagement. He was 23, and the roommate of my good friend’s boyfriend. She begged for months to get me to go on a double date with him. I was extremely shy, timid, and self-conscious, but finally agreed.
We spent the evening at a comedy club where I laughed as much at his jokes as I did the comedian’s. Afterwards, we all headed back to their apartment to play games and talk some more. At this point I didn’t want the night to end.
I left him my phone number, and prayed that he would call me soon.
Two days later, he did. And the rest, as they say, is history.
I loved that he was mature, intelligent, and settled in a career, yet fun and funny, caring and giving. He saw characteristics in me that I didn’t see in myself, and slowly brought some self-confidence into my life. (A trait he probably wishes he could undo at this point!) I felt worthy around him, I felt cared for, and I felt loved.
I was on cloud nine when he asked me to marry him. We had talked about it a little before that, and I knew that he wouldn’t have asked until he was absolutely sure we were going to make it.
I’d say 21 years together is “making it”. It hasn’t all been a walk in the park. In fact, we went through a pretty tough time a few years back, but our commitment and love for each other got us through. Now, we’re struggling with guiding our teenagers, caring for ailing parents, working long hours, and starting a new business. We try to take the time as often as we can to do things together that we both enjoy, so that when we finally make it through these times, and the nest is empty, we still know each other, and still like each other. We’re making plans for our future, and we’re setting the stage for our next 21 years.
I couldn’t be happier. I’ve never felt luckier. And I’m proud to say I would do it all over again.