Twenty-seven years ago August 2, I married the guy that knocked me up.
I wasn’t going to.
When I told him I was pregnant, while we sat on the picnic benches at Aldeen Park, a place we’d hung out many a time, he immediately dropped to one knee and proposed.

I said no.

I thought the proposal was on impulse—he hadn’t taken two seconds to think about anything.
He swears it was because he knew.

Knew what?

Knew that even after I said, “We’re in a situation we didn’t plan, let’s not compound it by rushing into another,” he knew that every path we considered would have us together.

He was right.
(You hear that ladies? Sometimes… sometimes they’re right.)

So, I just celebrated twenty-seven years of marriage.
27 years is a long time!
27 years? Can’t be.
27 years went by in a *snap*.
It doesn’t feel like I’ve gone to bed and waken up with the same man for twenty-seven years (28 if we’re being truthful).

I don’t feel old enough to have been in a relationship that long.
He doesn’t look old enough to have been in a relationship that long.

After nearly three decades, two children, two weddings in one summer!, three dogs, two houses, holidays, car problems, vacations, work issues… whew– we still like each other.

Of course we’ve had our ups and downs. But not really.
We’re both get-a-longs. Caring, accepting, amiable.

We’ve actually had discussions about where we think we’d be if we weren’t together.
I think he’d still be happily married. That’s the kind of guy he is. Maybe even happier-ly married considering, well, considering our “downs” might not be an issue for the other one.

He says if anything happens to me, he’s not remarrying.
Not only do I think he should, I hope he does—I encourage it.
And it will be much easier than he thinks considering there will be a line around the block of his sisters’ friends, ex-girlfriends, and basically any single woman over thirty.
He’s going to be a hot commodity!

But not yet.

Until then, I plan to continue to relish his company. His generosity, his sense of humor, his smoking hot body.

In my turn, I shall continue to pander to his peanutbutter addiction, foster his faith in the White Sox (*sigh*), and enjoy every single moment of every single Wednesday.

You know the old saying, “gettin’ lucky”?
I sure did.