Twenty-three years ago yesterday, I said, “I do” to Hubs. Yesterday, I said something a little less romantic, like “At least turn the fan on, if you’re going to do something like THAT in here!” Twenty-three years is a long time to be married.
Twenty-three years is plenty of time to see each other at our worsts. For example, vertigo kicked my knees out from under me on Friday evening, and I didn’t resurface until this morning. If you’re doing the math, add the one, carry the two, and that comes out to be three full nights and two and a half days in bed. I actually went to the ER with vertigo last March, because there just comes a point where you can no longer take the spinning room and wondering if you’ll ever be normal again. I was thrilled to hear the ER doctor announce, “This is classic, textbook vertigo. It can last anywhere from a few hours to six months.” I couldn’t imagine six entire months of walking into walls and needing to clutch the bathroom garbage can tightly to my chest, every time I rolled over in bed.
Thankfully, that episode cleared up in four days, and I wasn’t a bit sad to see it go.
And then it came back Friday evening, and I finally started feeling better this afternoon.
I had taken a shower on Friday morning.
And I took another one on Sunday night.
There was no showering or hair washing or face washing or ANY KIND OF WASHING in between those times. At one point last night, when we were lamenting the fact that I would throw up any steak dinner Hubs grilled to celebrate our anniversary, he looked at me… and I mean, he REALLY looked at me. And then he said the words every girl longs to hear.
“Why don’t you see if you can jump in the shower and get that hair tamed down a bit.”
And THAT, y’all, is how I know we are still in love. Because even when my hair looked like a nest inhabited by rodents… even when I walked into the wall every time I set foot out of bed… Hubs was still there, consistently asking me if I needed anything. He offered to bring 7-Up with straws. He offered to run into town for anything that sounded like it might sit well on my tummy, if I was hungry. He offered to turn the ceiling fan on a little higher, which was an enormous act of love, because Hubs hates the ceiling fan. And then, in the end, he offered me the sound advice that I probably needed to try some hot water, a bar of soap, and a stick of deodorant.