Eight years ago

I did the smartest thing I've done my whole life.

I married my best friend. The man who has held me when I've cried about my father's death... years before. The only one I've wanted in the delivery room of our children. The man who brings me Hershey's Nuggets (dark, with almonds!) when he's forgotten to put the dishes away. Who installed a hand-held shower for me when my sciatica or varicose veins are acting up, so I can sit in the shower.
Who listens to me psychoanalyze the motivations of the characters in my romance novels or Desperate Housewives. Who didn't run for the hills when I had a temper tantrum about onions on my Filet-O-Fish (remember the Deluxe? Eew.) or about having the same chenille bedspread as my mother and grandmother.
Who understands that propositions made during a second cup of morning coffee may be null after bedtime stories, or at least postponed. Who doesn't laugh when I spend 30 minutes of our 45 minute browse time in the children's section of the bookstore, simply sighs and holds out his hands. And later signs the debit receipt.
Who notices when I do vacuum or shave my legs, but not when I don't. Who tells me that dinner was delicious, even when it involved merely boiling water and opening a jar. And who says, on days when I'm too overwhelmed to do even that, "Would you like someone else to cook?" despite knowing we have less than $30 in the bank.
Who takes it as a compliment when I tell him Who's Your Daddy? reminds me of him (even though he's called it a four-minute leer). Who takes it as a challenge to find me fourteen books that have gone out of print--and succeeds. Who knows the exact right words and action to show me forgiveness.

I love you, my best friend. I mean it every night when I tell each of our children that it was the smartest thing I ever did.