Emily; A Whole ‘Nother Year

OK, I’ll admit it. When it comes to outwardly living, acting and reacting to emotions, I’m a curmudgeon. I don’t laugh out-loud near enough to express how happy I am and I don’t cry nearly enough to express the deep emotion that helps you to know that I’m not some weird robot from outer space. I’m sure you sometimes read the things I blog about and probably wonder who is this guy eating leftovers off my plate and what did you do with my husband? My mind is always jam-packed with thoughts but they just seem to come out better through my fingertips than from my mouth.

I do get it, I’m not the most outwardly expressive person on the planet; probably not even in the top five billion. I’d venture to guess that there are probably a few ISIS soldiers who are more emotionally expressive than I am. When you’re laughing out loud, I’m just grinning. When you’re overjoyed to tears, I’m just smiling. But what you don’t realize is that those tiny little expressions on the outside of my face are representing billions of happy neurons colliding among the fat cells underneath. I do love and I do feel things strongly, my face just doesn’t always cooperate with my mind.

I like to believe that you get me, that you know the real me beneath my dull and undemonstrative exterior. In a utopian world, you would appreciate the rock-like foundation that supports who you are and what you’re doing no matter what mood I’m in or what has happened at work. That’s utopia, not Fairfield Pike, so I guess it probably helps to get a personal dose of emotion and passion from your husband now and then, especially when it’s your Birthday. This might be an attempt to do you some justice as you are far too important to me and your friends to be let down by the one you lift up so perfectly.

First of all, Happy Birthday! I wanted that to be a sentence all by itself but then I looked at it on paper and decided that it looked lonely. That just wouldn’t do. I never want you to be lonely. That is why I can mostly be found clutching your hand in mine. Your hand is, to me, a perfect hand. It touches me and comforts me in ways that are difficult to write about. It’s the thrill of a soft caress and the solace of a late night head scratch that heal me. It’s the kneading of biscuit dough or the mechanics of a sweet thank you letter that move me. Your hands untangle the knots in my soul while they weave a life worth living. You have the kind of hands that are worth holding and I love holding them.

You are the best friend a person could ever hope to have. I love that you are still friends with most of your childhood friends. That demonstrates that you are loyal and kind and thoughtful. I’m so thankful to get to be the guy who wakes up with and falls asleep beside you. I never suffer from a lack of sleep because I’m forever at peace knowing that I won. I beat the odds and I beat every single other man out there who was looking for the perfect wife. They lost and I won. My rewards and reminders are the long red hairs I find daily entwined in my clothes and in precarious places on my body. When I find one, I laugh (internally of course) then pinch myself to remind me that this whole amazing thing is actually real – that I get to be the one who kisses your lips and holds you close every day of my life.

I love your laugh. You have an infectious laugh and I guess that is why my laughs seem so insignificant and barren. Your laugh makes my laugh look like an indifferent mime without the cool striped mime costume and makeup. Who could ever smile as big or laugh as hard as you? No one can. That awesome laugh cheers me up and makes me want to deserve you. The lines on my face are from 8 years of perpetual smiling. I’m totally getting wrinkles on my face because of you and I don’t even care.

Emily in Slovenia

I think you are absolutely beautiful. If you were a president, you would be named Babe-a-ham Lincoln. In Latin, you would be called “babia majora”. If you had lived during the Renaissance period, it would be called the Emily period as all of the masters would have painted you. You hair is like silky sunshine and your eyes are like maple nut goodies. If you’d let me, I’d lick you all day long. That’s creepy I know but, alas, no licking allowed. It’s ok though, because you do let me hold your hands a lot.

I could never write great things about you without mentioning your amazing cooking but I really don’t need or want to because your fantastic cooking has more to do with the love you have for each of us that get to eat it than it has to do with skill. For you, cooking is a metaphor for love. It’s just one of the many things you make an effort to do that reflects the size and capacity of your heart. You love harder and stronger than anyone I’ve ever met and that makes you an amazing wife and an incredibly rare friend. I pray I never lose you.

I hope that this Birthday is one fraction as special for you as is it is for me because for me it means that I just got to spend a whole-‘nother year with the woman I love and the best friend any person could ever hope to find. My love for you grows exponentially each and every year as I continue to discover more wonderful things about you. Just when I think I’ve seen the whole of you, another rose bud springs forth that redefines the meaning of perfection and the vernacular of love. You are absolutely amazing!

Happy Birthday Emily.

See, I did give it its own line.

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