that married life//sex & vomit

I'm not one to generally believe in "the one" because it's corny and I hate that shit. I'm also a pessimist and pretty unforgiving. Combine that with anxiety and depression and my future, in the darkest parts of my head at least, looks pretty grim. Regardless, there is a moment in my life, some eleven-ish years ago when I looked at this nineteen year old nerd and thought: he's the one.

We had started dating weeks earlier and, for some idiotic reason had decided to wait to have sex for the first time so it was "special" {gross}. He was fine with it. I was not. I was seventeen and impatient and going without sex for a month was torture on my poor sensitive soul. The first time we actually planned to "do it" I decided it would be fine to drink this beer and guarana concoction. I don't remember how much I drank or what inspired me to be so stupid. What I do recall was vomiting so attractively on his carpeted bedroom floor. Biggest pile of vomit ever.

Husband held my hair, undressed me {ooh!} and took me to the shower. I couldn't stand so he washed me and then after the shower he dried me, got me re-dressed, made sure my hair wasn't soaking wet and then, to work he went on the mound of vomit. Details are a little fuzzy of this night but this I remember vividly. At the time I didn't think much of it. Most likely because all my brain cells were dead. But later, and still, now, I look back and realise that this is the moment I knew Husband was "the one" {if there is such a thing}.

He has continued to hold my hair as I vomit {more so lately and not because of beer} and he has remained that lovely guy who is always there to take care of me. I do adore my nerdy hair holder.

So here's a tip -- marry someone who will hold your hair when you vomit and who'll clean you up without coping a feel.

That's a special one from me to you. 

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