Somewhere down the line in every relationship, it happens. You go from holding in your farts to farting in each other's faces. From wearing makeup to bed to not wearing makeup at all. From talking dirty in bed, to really talking dirty:
"Archer pooped the BIGGEST poop, today, dude. It looked like a dinosaur egg!"...Some call this laziness. I call it intimacy. Being real. Not being afraid of being an idiosyncratic mess because lord knows, we are all flawed as fuck.
I didn't know what to expect from a marriage, and now, two years later, I am starting to realize what it's all about: Being real.
The days of courtship and make-out sessions have been replaced with the comfort of zit-cream and picking each other's scabs. Push-up bras have been retired. Sexy lingerie is now used as a childproofing device. Because it doesn't matter anymore. No fluff. No fakery. No trying to cover blemishes with concealer. Or hiding tears.
Marriage is about the half-eaten cake in the fridge,"I made it for you, but then I got hungry." It's about the late-night snack runs, even if they're the wrong kind of snacks. It's about trying. And messing up. And falling down. And getting up. And making up.
And yet sometimes I mourn the days of romance. (I'm a woman. I can't help it.) And flowers at the door. And showers of compliments and kisses. And weekend getaways and spontaneous sex-a-thons. Because it's true what they say... All of that stuff does change. When you get married. When you have a baby. When you grow up. And yet... How much has really changed? I look at us then and I wonder...
Sometimes it's hard to give up roses. But a marriage isn't about genetic perfection, the sweet fragrance we call, "romance". Marriage is about the flowers that grow wild in the sidewalk cracks. Often disguised as weeds and equally hard to manage. Blooming year round. Dandelions with wishes to blow against the wind. (If you believe.)
And I do. I believe. Even if I kick the sidewalk sometimes.
Because I am willing to trade all of that in for a night of stinky feet and cookie crumbs in bed. And that's love, man. Smelling each other's less-than-pleasant fumes and giggling in bed until 4am. Gaining weight. Getting older. None of that matters. Who cares? It's just me.
Strip away the mask. Remove the black lace panty set. The makeup. The various deoderizers.
Marriage is about the wonderful stink. The morning after. Hungover and bloated. Without makeup.
Being able to bend over without sucking in stomach fat, or covering cellulite. Being real.
And so today we celebrate two years of burping, farting, wrestling, wise-cracking, inside-joke making, eye-rolling, dish-breaking, music-blasting, ass-slapping, name-calling, cheek-pinching marriage.
Gone are the roses, perhaps. But the dandelions are here to stay, quietly growing in the cracks.
Happy Anniversary, Halston-bot. I love you.