Marrying George Clooney

my ken.
after 19 years, i can still feel my heart pound.
i can.
he’s sexy and sweet and his kisses are soft and full, and he dances like a god, and sings off key and can build a nest that is so comforting and beautiful. he makes a mean fire, and wears no jewelry. not even a watch. i can’t tell you how sexy that is to me.
he makes my heart pound.
and sometimes to be quite honest it’s not pounding strictly out of “sexy… oh my god give it to me now,” it’s pounding because he can be a little mister magoo-ish, forgetful, spacy, and then the worry starts in and the anxiety peaks, and well… you know. you know.
love is all about that kind of stuff.
in 19 years this is what i’ve learned:

screaming loudly doesn’t get you heard. ken does not hear me when i’m screaming at the of of my lungs. he ignores me. i finally learned this after many years. i thought he needed a hearing aid. boy was i wrong.

70 is not the new 50. it’s a better 70. a great sexier 70, a funnier 70. a stronger 70. and it works and fits with 56 much better.

there IS something new in everyday. something small, something tiny, something LARGE, something unexpected, something that takes your breath away, keeps you up at night, makes you stop and thank the universe, god, an angel.

having it all doesn’t mean having so much stuff and crap you have to go to the dump or recycling every six months. having it all is right in front of you. it is truly right in front of you.

love is about compromise and forgiveness and saying i’m sorry, i’m wrong, i made a mistake.
love is not 50/50. it’s 100%. all in. nothing else.
love is scary. frightening. it has twists and turns and sometimes, not always, needs a GPS.
love is the greatest collaboration. it is. it takes an amazing amount of work. and effort, showing up daily. two people (trying desperately at times, effortlessly at others) creating a life.

and then there’s the garbage lesson. as in who takes the garbage out.

and this is what i now know: at the end of the day: it isn’t about who is throwing out the garbage. it’s about knowing that once you throw the fucking garbage out, it needs to stay there – in the garbage – and not be thrown up in someone’s face over and over again. it’s called garbage, not re-garbage.

i love my guy.
he makes me swoon.