My husband is seven years older than I am, which sometimes feels like a lot and sometimes it doesn’t.
He’s a “car guy.” He knows way more about cars than any sane person ought to. When we’re watching movies, he points out what kinds of cars the characters are driving. Plus the cars that are barely noticeable in the background. Plus the cars that aren’t visible but you can barely hear the engine running behind the dialogue.
He loves to fix things. He usually fixes them before I even notice they’re broken.
He’s from Texas, but he’s not one of those Texans who think that Texas will someday take over the world. (Mostly.)
He doesn’t like chocolate. Or mint. Or lemon. Or tomatoes. Or peaches. But he’s a pretty good sport about eating whatever I make for dinner.
He’s incredibly handsome. He looks like a combination of Chris Hemsworth, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Clark Gable.
(You should be jealous.)
We’ve been married for two years, but it feels like it’s been about a week.
When he comes home and finds that I’ve been too stressed to make dinner, he offers to get pizza.
He adores our baby. He’s a wonderful father.
I can’t believe I get to be his wife.