I still get asked pretty often how I like being married, and how it's different than our pre-married state. To that, I always answer "I love it," and "not very." Sure, we've got a nicer toaster (with polka dots!) and I still squirm a bit whenever anyone refers to us as husband and wife, and the poor Safeway girl doesn't understand why I look like I wanted to hug her when she hands back my Visa card and says "Here you go, Mrs. Lucky!" but other than that, it's not been that different than the years that preceded it. Which is to say, it's pretty awesome.
On the very scientific scale of up's and down's, this year has been heavily weighted on the up. That's my convoluted way of saying that it's been really good. A person might think that the events of the last few weeks would have pulled it down significantly, but I would argue that there's been so much to outweigh that, particularly the huge joy of knowing that we can get pregnant, and the very pleasant process of trying. And trying some more. Then a few more times just to be safe. Throw in Japan, and joint family holidays, and Rock Band parties with the buddies, and all those quiet nights of sitting on the couch and doing our own things while being so happy to just be in the same room while we do them, and there's just no contest.
We've actually got another anniversary coming up as well. August 26th will mark eight years since my brother married my sister-in-law, and because I like to frame everything in terms of what it has to do with me, I think of that as the day that Lucky and I truly set this in motion, and hooked each other, for better or for worse. It was at their wedding that I saw this boy that I'd first met three years earlier, when I was a 15 year old girl with lofty romantic ambitions. I remember standing at the podium in the church, reading aloud the bible passage my brother had chosen for me, and having very un-Catholic thoughts about him, watching me from one of the pews, giving me just as many butterflies as he had three years before. At the reception, I did my very best, and used all my not-so subtle charms, but the jerk just wouldn't ask me to dance. If I hadn't stepped up as the brave one, where would we be? I like to point that out, and he offers some lame excuse about the dangers of asking the groom's little sister to dance, and blah blah blah, my other brother is scary, and yeah yeah whatever he's chicken. Thankfully, he manned up enough to accept my request, and so it began, to the sound of Gord Downie, explaining that New Orleans was sinking. By the time the bride and groom came around to jokingly remind us to leave some room for the Holy Ghost, it was far too late.
Eight years later, and one year married, I've still got those butterflies. Happy anniversary, Honey.
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