Like Fine Wine, Love Can Get Better with Age
My sweet husband
My oldest sister once told me: “No one wants to read about how much you love your husband.”
So, please, stop reading right now, because it’s two days after Valentine’s Day, and I’ve been thinking about that very subject. It’s been 43 years, and I’m still madly in love with my husband—even more so than when I married him. What’s up with that?
A lot of it is just plain dumb luck. I married the right person for me. There’s not a day when I don’t wake up and think, “How did I get so lucky?”
Not that my husband would be the right person for everyone. For anyone who has traveling on their bucket list, he would immediately be nixed from any list of desirable mates. My husband is a total homebody who goes into a breakdown at the thought of traveling further than the local recycling center. Nope, no romantic getaway to the Caribbean for me.
But oh, how sweet he makes life at home. He never complains because I close the door when I’m writing. And not only is his hobby cooking, but he chops wood and builds lovely fires for us on frigid days. He is a true giver who does so many nice things for me and our home. Every day, he tells me that he loves me and that I “look pretty” even when I know perfectly well that I don’t.
Here’s his other amazing quality: He’s hilarious. He keeps me laughing, including at myself, and makes even the bleakest days bearable.
Aging inevitably includes loss. My dancing days are long past, the children are gone, and health challenges loom. But one thing truly has grown even sweeter—my love for my partner and my gratitude that I get to share my life with him.
And so, with apologies to my dear sister, here’s yet another blog about just how much I love my husband.