Married Life

I imagined married life as a constant adventure with something new cropping up every day. Already, two weeks into wifehood, my previous expectations were lost in the couch cushions, buried next to a dime, three pennies, and the ripped-off button of my black jacket. I've certainly lived through more exhilarating times: dark-halled rock concerts three times a week, dreamy dreadlocked boys, fast-paced newsrooms, Bonnaroo, and rule breaking. As it turns out, marriage is not a particularly thrilling venture.

I think marriage would be better described as a marvelously warm experience. With shared body heat under the covers, it's impossible to get cold at night, and when we go down to the beach to read in the summer, there is somebody to get the unreachable spots on my back with sunblock. There are twenty toes to play with instead of ten, and I don't know how he does it, but there is a natural groove in his chest that fits the curve of my head perfectly and is the most snuggly place in the world. He'll even play Scrabble with me at coffee shops.

All the old exciting times were great, but I'm pretty sure I have ear damage from those rock concerts, and the dreadlock boy ended up cutting his hair all respectable like.
I like John's hair. And I like having someone to do the crossword puzzle with. Personally, I think marriage is bitchin', and I like it.