Ten.

Dear John,

Ten years ago, at this hour, I was laying on a sleeping bag on my mother's livingroom floor, listening to my very drunk brother nattering in my ear. He went on and on and on about what it means to be married, how hard it is to be a good partner, how much work having a successful relationship is. Having never actually accomplished ANY of those things, I told him to take his drunk ass to bed so I could get some sleep, lest I have bags under my eyes the next day. I threatened to beat him about the head with my shoe if he didn't let me get some sleep. He waxed philosophic for a few more minutes, kissed me on the forehead, told me he loved me and was happy for me, and stumbled off to pass out in our other brother's room. I laid there for a long while thinking about all he'd said, marveling at how he could know all of those things well enough to say them to me, and yet his own relationships were nothing short of disasters for the most part.
I eventually fell asleep, only to wake with the sun in order to prepare for our wedding. As I moved through the day, preparing to say my vows and begin a life in tandem, I wasn't nervous. I wasn't anxious. I was freaking. tired.
As I stood at the end of the aisle, waiting for the Star Wars theme to begin so I could take my brother's arm and make my way toward marriage, I punched him in the arm and called him an asshole. Then I told him I loved him, and thanked him for the pep talk. We marched down the aisle to you.
As the minister spoke the words I'd carefully crafted, I didn't hear her. I didn't see her. I didn't hear or see anyone but you. I stifled delirious giggles and sucked back tears of exhaustion, waiting for her to say that I was married to you. When those horrible fake nails and that damned twine I insisted on tying around our vows conspired to frustrate me, I let the tears loose and sobbed, surrendering to the fatigue and the moment. I don't think a single person in the audience understood a word I said for a good five minutes. I nearly lost my shit in front of God and everyone, but you reached across the empty space between us and wiped the tears from my cheeks and everything was right with the world once again.
The rest of the ceremony and reception is kind of a blur. I remember dancing down the aisle to Queen's "Another One Bites The Dust" much to the chagrin of every other adult in attendance, and not caring that we couldn't dance without tripping over each other. I remember dancing alone in the middle of the dance floor with you, doing the Time Warp with my friends, and shaking lots of hands. I remember Berta falling, drunken groomsmen getting up to no good, and a serious shortage of beer. But mostly, I remember being with you.
It's been ten years. Much of that time is a blur as well. My brother is gone, but I've come to realize that everything he said to me that night was true. This marriage, this partnership, has been hard, and rewarding, work. We've both gotten new jobs, new careers. We've bought a house. We've become older, wiser, better people. We've created a family. This life we've made, in some ways so much like we'd always planned and in some ways so very different, is a beautiful one. In all the memories I've collected over the last ten years, those that are strongest are the ones I made with you.
It hasn't always been easy, and it's far from perfect, but I can't imagine having made these memories with anyone other than you.
Happy anniversary,
Boo

Holy shit 2 months!

I can't believe it's been two months since I've had anything to say. How is that possible? It's not. Really. It's not. I've just had a boat load of stuff going on. I can't tell you how many times I've been to the gym and seen a middle-aged ass hanging out of spandex, sat through a meeting listening to mental midgets blather on about how smaaaaaaaaaht they are, or cruised through the market only to be hissed at by a free-range toddler spitting and snatching cookies off the shelf, and thought "maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan I've got an angry letter for you!" Alas, those letters never got written because life got in the way. I kinda suck like that. I apologize. That letter to the spandex wearing freak at the gym (seriously, who wears a speedo to do cardio?) reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally needs to be written! In fact, I think that's where I'll take this apology, right back to our regularly scheduled asshattery:

Dear Speedo-sporting Douchebag,
You can't be serious. You can't be. No one in their right mind wears a Speedo, not even Michael Phelps! They are not flattering on the fittest of physiques, which yours doesn't even remotely resemble. Seriously man, I neeeeeeeeeed to get my cardio on. But when I walk into the gym and see your spandexed ass hanging out all over the machines, I just can't. I can't do it. I can't even touch the machine knowing your barely covered crack has been near it.
You have the softest thighs and roundest hips I have ever seen on a man. Spandex is NOT helping. In fact, it's traumatizing. The last time we saw you on the Helliptical machine, my son asked me why you were allowed to work out in your underwear while everyone else had to wear pants! You're scarring the children, homie! Scarring them!
For the love of all that is holy, cover up the junk in your trunk! Hell, cover up the trunk too! It's just wrong! And burn the spandex Speedo. Burn them so you won't ever be tempted to wear them in public or private again. Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should. And really, you shouldn't.

Sincerely,

The crack-phobic fatty waiting for a clean machine.