Today is our ninth wedding anniversary. I haven't seen my husband all day. I might not see him tomorrow. I am so over residency.
Wah.
Now excuse me. I need to go scavenge through my kitchen looking for some therapeutic chocolate.
Okay, I'm back. All I could find was Captain Crunch with Crunchberries (Michael bought it, I swear). I ate it anyway.
Now, the ninth anniversary thing. I'd include adorable wedding photos of our young selves (with full heads of hair and appropriately proportioned bodies) getting married, but Michael is the only person in the house currently possessing the technological genius required to work this newfangled scanner he just got. I guess we'll have to wait until tomorrow. Or the next day. Or maybe later than that. You never know.
Since this is the advent of our tenth year together, I'll give you advanced warning, some future posts could possibly get slightly mushy. Okay, maybe not mushy. I typically don't do mushy. Sentimental might be a better word. We still really really like each other, okay?
There will probably be posts notifying you of the tenth anniversary of our first date, the great snow-shoeing incident; when my missionary came home and wouldn't believe me when I promised promised promised that I was really already dating the guy I was going to marry; the Valentine's date THAT HE WENT ON WITH ANOTHER GIRL (to be fair, it was girl's choice . . . she asked . . . but he didn't say no!); the first time I ever saw the infamous Jazz Jacket; and when he proposed up on Castle Rock. You know, that type of thing.
And every year, I keep thinking that I should e-mail, call, or write my old friend Nikki and thank her for shoving us together. Nikki? Are you out there in internet-dom? If you are, thanks again. Why don't we keep in better touch? Could it be this habit I have of moving across the country every few years? Sorry.
