Saint Valentine, thanks for hooking me up, player.

Saint Valentine, thanks for hooking me up, player.

I’m thinking that a couple’s massage has the potential to be either the most awesome or the most awkward experience ever. My knee-jerk reaction is that watching some perky, fresh-faced University of Phoenix massage program grad rub all up on my husband doesn’t exactly facilitate relaxation. Rage, maybe. Then again, if I could spend 60 minutes staring at my pretty husband while a hunky, exotic import rubs all up on me, um…yes, please. None of this matters, of course. We don’t have a couples massage planned, but with the constant influx of spam in my inbox for half off couple’s massages, well, my mind gets a-wanderin’.

What this girl wants on the day of Valentines, and basically any day, is chocolate. Milk. Freaking. Chocolate. We can watch Spike TV and all 37 Rocky installments if I’m munching on something with caramel or raspberry or nougat dribbling down my chin. Which is about as hot to my husband as Rocky Balboa is to me.

Why all the romantic talk? Clayton and I hit our 1000th day of marriage milestone this week. Yeah, it’s a milestone, even if there’s not a Hallmark card for it, so if you could stop rolling your eyes, that would be fantastic. Anyway, he was actually visiting his family this past weekend, so we only spent about 7 minutes together that night when I picked him up at the airport at almost-midnight (aka why you don’t purchase the cheaper tickets that tell you arrival times after you’ve bought them).  

Without gushing to the point of blubbering, I will just say that I got one of the good ones.  Since Clayton and I have been married, we’ve experienced a graduate school graduation, adopting a puppy, moving three times in Tampa, my going back to school, taking the boards, too many FSU losses, explaining to family that we would not be having kids 30 seconds after getting married, a grown up job search with grown up conversations afterwards, an Auburn national championship, lots of frozen pizza and the hardest 6 months of my life. I know that lots of love stories are more glamorous or more heart wrenching or just plain more dramatic than ours. But ours is beautiful for all the quiet times Clayton knew to brush the hair from my eyes and pull me into an everything-will-be-okay hug, for all the sarcastic remarks that make him genuinely laugh instead of judge me for being kind of snobby, for all the attempted dinners that he takes down in large bites with a conspicuous amount of water, for giggling when we curse, for every night he double checks all the door locks before going to bed, for not trying to talk to me when I’m really sad and just pulling straight into the closest coffee shop, and for all the life we’ve lived together and the family we’ve built in 1000 smiling, crying, frustrated, smitten, wouldn’t-change-a-single-thing days.

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