Best.Twelve.Years.Ever.

The day itself was hotter than most I can recall. Sure, it’d been a warm summer, but, damn…we sweat straight through those ridiculous suits and those alter fans did nothing but blow out repeated attempts at lighting the unity candle. The pastor looked to be a goner for sure, but our nervous exuberance and exaggerated smiles destroyed any chance that discomfort might arrive to sour the mood.

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The heat be damned. We were getting married.

Twelve years on and while I certainly have less unfortunate facial and cranial hair I still sweat through clothes with ease. I also smile a lot, though, so I got that goin for me. We had the bright idea that we might wed and get going on the path we were so obviously destined to travel. Get busy livin, as they say. One good year deserves eleven more.

Here’s to another hundred.

As the years pass we gather in groups diminishing in size, but positively blooming with pride and wonder and love. While we may have lost our youth and resilience; our smooth skin and three-hour hangovers; each drink tastes stronger and sweeter as our skin grows thicker.

Rings on the tree add wisdom to the tongue.

Happy anniversary to the most beautiful of brides. I keep getting older; she stays the same age.
Alright.

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