I don't usually have a hard time writing most of my posts. But today was a different story. I sat looking at the screen nervously. Today is important. And I want to do it justice.
Today Michael and I are celebrating 9 years together. I know. It's a long time. And you're probably thinking: Hey Helene, how can you be soooo young and have been together sooo long. Well even if you aren't thinking that we will pretend you are.
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| Homecoming Dance Senior Year – 2004, 17 year old babies |
Michael and I met summer of our senior year in high school. We went to homecoming senior year together, but we weren't official yet. It wasn't until this day in 2004, a Monday that it became official. (I know it was a Monday because those were the days that Michael's mom had choir and I went over to his house without his mom knowing- yep seniors in high school, not allowed to be unsupervised. She might have good reason eventually.)
It was this day, Michael and I were watching TV, his head in my lap and I had on my light blue Abercrombie Graphic Tee “If I Kiss Him Will He Stop Talking?” (Hey I was 17 after all). Michael looked up at me and simply asked “Will you be my girlfriend?” Little did I know, 7 years later I would marry this man. Yell at him for smelly farts. Travel to Europe with him just to go to a concert. Cry with him when I found at my sister had cancer. Jump into his arms when we were long distance in college. Hold his hand when his parents got a divorce. Beam with pride when he got his master's degree. Buy a house together. Nurse me back to health when I broke my ankle.
A friend the other day asked me: How do you know? How did you know that he was the one?
It's a good question. How can we ever be sure?
I do know this, Michael is one of the best people I know. Yes, he makes me a better person and all that jazz. But he's just so good. Everyone loves Michael. He has a great attitude about life. He's passionate and fun. He is my perfect half.
But there is one story when I really knew.
We were at my parents house in the kitchen. My dad is watching sports in the living room, my sisters, my mom, Michael and I are in the kitchen chatting. Michael casually grabbed a paper towel, took a few steps across the room, picked up something off the floor, and threw it in the trash. I barely even saw what happened. A few minutes later my mom pulled me into her room and said, “Helene, do you know what Michael just did?” I had no earthly clue. She told me, “He picked up a roach off the floor. He did it quietly, so we wouldn't all scream bloody mary. He's a good one. He's a good catch.”
My mom was right. He didn't need to be the hero. He just did it. That's just the kind of person he is.
No, our relationship isn't perfect. We fight. We bicker. The other day I had to go outside to cool off I was so mad (I'm slightly hot headed.) But I still get butterflies thinking about him. I'm proud of him and he's proud of me. There isn't a soul in the world like him. I may have been 17 when we met, but sometimes you just know. You know that this is the one.
So happy 9 years Michael. We're the best thing that ever happened to us.
