Fifteen years ago I woke up nervous, excited, and scared. Nervous that I'd say the wrong thing, excited about what was about to happen, and scared that my hair would go flat.
It was the day I got married.
Planning a wedding is a lot of work.
You work for months planning the wedding, thumbing through magazines. What will the bridesmaids wear? Who will be your maid of honor? Where will you have the reception? How are you going to fix your hair?
Here's the thing. Whether you are rolling your hair or using the straightening iron, the work has just begun.
There are bills and jobs, adjustments and disagreements, misunderstandings and forgiveness, and woven through it all is love and, if you're lucky, a lot of laughter.
Marriage is work, but it's the kind of work that makes you want to get up early the next day and put in extra hours. This is the kind of work that requires all of you and sometimes more than all of you.
Fifteen years ago I had a lot to learn. Still do.
My husband has taught me more than he knows. He has taught me how to dream, how to see the world differently, and how to make some of the best cookies in the world. (He's still trying to teach me how to properly open a box of crackers; I always open the wrong end.)
I've taught him more Southern sayings and words than he ever wanted to know. I've taught him that it's useless to make a biscuit without good flour and that it always takes longer to cook grits than the instructions read on the box.
Fifteen years from now, I'll remember (scratching my head) all the things I did the morning of our wedding. Rolling my hair. Knowing where to stand. Talking about the flowers and the dress.
I pray, with the grace of God, that I can remember another fifteen years of love and commitment. I hope I can still quote lines from Seinfeld and that we will both always remember to laugh.
But I'll still worry about my hair.
Happy Anniversary, Hubs.
Here's to fifteen more years of eating Triscuits from the wrong end of the box.