Actually, this is a busy time of year at my house. Thanksgiving. Hubster's birthday. Anniversary. Christmas...what? Anniversary? That's right, two years ago on December 10th, the big J and me were tying the proverbial knot. It was good times, folks, good times. (See left.)
So last night, on the official anniversary date, we were obligated to go to the company Christmas party, which is always a thrill. So instead we're going to head out for a little night on the town on Friday.
But on any anniversary, I think it's only natural to think about how much you love and adore your spouse. You think of all the wonderfully sweet and precious things they've done in the past and you get a warm fuzzy feeling. However, I couldn't help thinking of a recent incident in which my own efforts to share my husband's love of football came to a painful and tragic ending.
It was Monday Night Football, I believe. The game was over and the favored team must have won cause hubs was in a good mood. I was too. In fact, I would go so far as to say I was in a 'great' mood because when hubs suggested that we go outside and 'throw the football', this sounded like a good idea to me.
Now, the football in question was not a softy Nerf egg-shaped variation that lands on the ground with a 'poof'. It was more like an NFL-quality, full-size pig skin around which my little handsies could barely get a grip. And it was dark. And I generally excel in sports like running, or cycling, or yoga.
I'd have to say, I was pretty proud of myself. We got quite a few could passes in. But my finger that normally looks like this:
The things we do for love. It's still a little sore and it's been about three weeks. Love is a battlefield, so they say. Any folks out there have any genuine battle scars from the Love and Marriage scene?
Anywho, Happy Anniversary, hon. Two years down, fifty million to go. You're totally worth having a finger that looks like a sausage.