Thirty Seven Years Later...
Yes - thirty seven years ago we got hitched. On the 7th September (or was it the 6th?) 1980. We'd met eleven months earlier, on the 6th (or was it the 7th?) October, 1979. His Greatness (Husband) always remembers. I always forget (Isn't it supposed to be t'other way round?).
Anyway, he's the best decision I ever made. He's my soulmate/lover/best friend/rock, you name it... We share the same schoolboy sense of humour. Life is fun. Usually. His vows included the promise to join me in my wild west shenanigans. He's the one who has encouraged me in my Kitty Le Roy persona. To write my epic novel. He's creative, we share our numerous hobbies. His brain is the size of a small planet, which is appropriate cuz we both enjoy Star Trek, Deep Space Nine, and watching the night sky for sparkly moving objects - satellites and the space lab, for instance - and shooting stars. But Husband can't spell and can't do the times table. I can do both. Ya-boo. Yes, his brain is amazing. He was born that way. I, on the other hand, was born confused. He has his job cut out when I ask him to explain Life, the World, and Everything Else. That means economics, building societies and politics. But ask me to design something or write something or decide on a colour for something (he has problems in that department) and I'm your woman.
We compliment one another. He plans things to death. I jump in with both feet. As concerns travel, particularly abroad, I say 'Let's go there, Husband!' (Outer Mongolia or wherever the pin landed) and poor sod has to plan it cuz I couldn't organise a rice pudding or a piss up in a brewery, as my dear ol' dad used to say.
But - and it's a huge 'but' - my rock/lover/best mate/soulmate deserves a big humungous fat gong for looking after me over that period of thirty years when I was - on and off - unwell in the mental department. He's been - and is - fab. Not only did he look after me, and been absolutely brilliant with CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy to you and me), but his sense of humour never swayed or zonked out. And I still fancy him to boot, whatever that means.
So, I say to all those other women who flirt with him (and they do, although he can't see it) - 'Hands off. He's mine. All m-i-i-n-e...'