That's not how long we've been married. But it is how long we've been a 'thing.'
18 years and two weeks ago on Labor Day, to be exact, is the first time our knees touched on that couch in Northeast Minneapolis in an old house they called Tallmadge. We really didn't do much more than touch knees and smooch that night, while watching Jerry Lewis into the wee hours of the morning. (Okay, maybe I did flash a little boobie, but that was ONLY because I was hopping on a plane later on that morning, and I really wanted to give him a little something to help him remember me by… emphasis on little something.)
(Sorry, Mom. You know I was a good kid. I know I shouldn't have been doing that but HEY! look at how cute your grandkids turned out! SO worth it, in the end, don't you think? Like I always say, You got to know when to hold 'em…know when to fold 'em…know when to flash a little boobie, and know when to run!)
Anyway, tonight, we had a rare few hours together without kids, and we were eating some marginal home-made tacos, which Dan thanked me for making, and I realized that it was year 18. And suddenly I felt very, very old and very, very happy.
And really, really grateful for every single second of it all.