>To My Darling Husband
I just wanted to write you this public letter thanking you for all you do. From buying me a brand new Macbook with only a minimum of cursing to your thoughtful Mother’s Day gift of a bottle of wine for each child who drives me to drink (not to mention the tickets to see Ira Glass), you are the ultimate model of loyalty, affection, good humor, and generosity. Really, I can’t think of one single thing that I would change about you, except for maybe the way you refuse to put your shoes in the basket by the front door when you come inside. Other than that, you’re perfect! A true 9.99!
Why else do you think I run to the door when you come home each night and throw my arms around your neck (after picking myself up off the ground from my face-first fall over the flip flops you left in the hallway that morning)? It is only because I am so filled with joy to see you, my darling- and to remind you for the zillionth time to put your perpetually mud-encrusted shoes in the damn basket.
We’ve stuck together through good times and through bad. We’ve had so many romantic evenings together, dancing to 50-Cent here, eating Chateaubriand in a five-star European restaurant there, that I can’t even count them all. We’ve also had our share of sleepless nights, you changing puke-covered crib sheets, me pacing the floor with a wailing baby and then stumbling to my knees over the ginormous pair of Doc Martens you planted in the center of the hallway-for-God’s-sake-what-were-you-thinking. We’ve gotten through it all together. You, me, the kids, and your shoes. Your big, dirty shoes.
But we’re more than husband and wife- we’re also best friends. When you’re not here, I feel lost. Everything reminds me of you, from the sneakers you dumped in front of the kitchen door to the loafers you abandoned in the exact spot where you took them off in the dining room. Images of your handsome face fill my head and I wonder how on earth I got so lucky to end up with a man who is so much fun to be around, and yet absolutely refuses to put his fucking shoes in the motherfucking basket!
Here’s to the years we’ve shared, Dearest, and to many more years to come. May we spend them together in a perpetual state of blissful Nirvana (which requires, I’m told, bare feet) and learn to recognize trouble by any name, whether it’s Nike, Birkenstock, or Bass Weejun.]]>