Weekdate Night

I have the best husband for me in the entire world. Even so, it's easy for us to flop during the week. We come home from work exhausted, frazzled moreso by our long commutes, and its easy to just throw on sweats, pop on a few hours of streaming Netflix shows, and veg before bed. Once a week though, without either of us saying it, we have a weekdate night.

Last night, we went shopping for a new stove. Purchased it. Celebrated with a more expensive than normal dinner out, where we talked. and talked. and talked. and talked. Later that night, when I suffered another round of frustration with my crazy RA body, he held me while I cried, made me laugh again, and played with my hair while we watched tv.

This past weekend, I went to a bachlorette party where we solicited marriage advice from everyone we came across for the bride to be. From the hot waiter advising her to "just not do it" to the cabdriver that mournfully advised us ladies to always "dress with jeans and makeup" around the house while simultaneously keeping his belly full, we collected some gems. Really, though I think a great marriage comes down to really, always making the other person feel important. Sounds simple, but hard to do. When you live with your one and only day in and day out, the tedious minutae can take over. It's easy to just flop, and take for granted. It's harder to listen when you are tired, harder still to go out of your way.

In the wake of a fall and winter full of losses I never thought I'd sustain, Kev has reminded me over and over to stop. To look around. To take things one day at a time. His biggest complaint about me is that I'm always excited about the next awesome thing. After we booked our Peru tickets and I speculated endlessly about the fabulous things we'd be doing in eight months, Kev slammed his hand on the steering wheel as he drove our battered Ford Focus down Lincoln.

"Just STOP," he implored. "Be HERE. Why do you always need to rush to the next best thing?"

Since then, he's had to remind me of that multiple times. Here isn't bad. Here is quietly wonderful. Six years after our second-first date, he knows what I need. When to listen. When to cut me off. When to let me veg and when to draw me out. I'm the hurricane and he's the eye- a quiet place to rest, a steady pulse forward. He makes me mindful. He reminds me to stop marking time and to start getting my damn head really, honestly back into writing. Into happiness.

And for that, I am a really freaking fortunate gal.