Right before Mike, I was left at a bar by a particularly charming man who in between going to the bathroom and refreshing his drink met someone he "had a better connection with."
This was awkward for a couple reasons since he was my date and my ride, but Natalie came and picked me up. (This is one of a million reasons everyone should have a Natalie.) I was sitting on the curb when she pulled up, past midnight, and she then let me stay at her place that night. She said to me, that night and many nights, "your guy is coming, but you have to stop dating these losers until then."
I didn't believe her. I believed I was destined for a lot of things but a good, healthy, loving relationship was not one of them. I even think I was okay with that.
My guy showed up a month later despite what the hell I was okay with.
He's showed up ever since.
He doesn't send me that many flowers. He doesn't take my face into his hands and profess his love or recite poetry. He doesn't smolder the way Damon on The Vampire Diaries does. He doesn't do a lot of things that might make a girl fall all over herself, that might even make that girl back then fall all over herself.
He showed up.
He shows up.
In a million damn ways.
No one on this planet will ever know how grateful I am that he proved me wrong by showing up seven years ago, married me four years ago, gave me a baby two years ago, and kissed me goodnight tonight.
No one on this planet will ever know how graetful I am that he is he at all.
Happy fourth anniversary, babe.
(Posting this a day early because we celebrate us tonight.)