This is a story all about how I love my hus-friend and hate that I'll never see him ever. Especially for dinner. I apologize.

Life has been pretty great this school year. There have been minor setbacks, but few tears of frustration and a clearer sense of what in the world I'm doing. I love those kids. Even the ones that throw food in the cafeteria and run during dismissal. Even them I love. And I'm lucky to have a job where I can hang out with cute kids and love them and try to teach them things like tying their shoes or how not to get so mad you want to throw a chair at someone's head or what the letters "th" make when their squished together. You know, stuff like that.

Then, I celebrated my 1st anniversary of marriage with Paul. This seems really weird to be all crazy about as we've been together for nearly 6 years and anniversaries always feel like a weird thing to celebrate, like you're celebrating the fact that you haven't started hating and severely resenting each other yet. Like, good job you made it a year? It's weird. Either way, we celebrated in Hocking Hills hiking and everything seemed to go wrong, which we eventually started laughing at, especially when a terrible blues band woke us up in our hotel lobby at 8 a.m. on a Sunday by playing so horribly loud that it woke us up with vibrations. But it reminded me of how incredibly lucky I am to have someone to drive around southern Ohio with, looking at barns we'll never own, talking about farmhouses we'll never buy or trips we only might, maybe take and understand how really really funny it is when someone plays "All I Want is You (Come Over)" by Christina Aguilera on the jukebox at Waffle House @ 10 a.m.  It's hard to find people that can fill up time and make it fun just with their presence and make you feel better than you did before, even harder to find a significant other to do that. I know, I'm lucky.

Then, Paul's position at his conservation job came to an end, like all grant-funded things eventually do, especially when you're trying to do something like save native plants, because who cares about those guys? So he was lucky enough to find work at a sub-contractor for Chrysler, factory job wah wah, but it's a good job. UNfortunately it's second shift, 10 hour days, 6 days a week.

My misfortune via numbers:
I wake up at 6, to work by 7, get off around 6. Paul wakes up at 10 a.m., goes to work by 4:30 p.m. gets home at 3:30 a.m. Our overlap consists of sleep time Monday thru Saturday. Oi.

My problem is that I really like my dude. Like, a lot. Not just in the way that you're supposed to when you're married, but I genuinely think he's the best person I've ever met, and I'm truly not being biased. After living together for over 5 years and being together for 6, he still kisses me in the bread aisle of Meijer, dances in the kitchen while we're making dinner and listening to music, thinks I'm really funny, is so nice to old people, tolerates my whining (TALL ORDER) and somehow always knows to tell me that I look amazing when I really need to hear it. I could go on and fill up the Grand Canyon with things that I love about him. And I feel like a big baby.

I know I should be thankful that he got a great job and took it in order to get us to eventually buying a house, traveling more, driving safer cars, blah blah blah. But is it crazy to not care about all that? Like maybe we just aren't cut out to own a house. Maybe we're just meant to live in this adorable duplex forever and make pizza out of mashed potatoes and biscuits and argue whether or not Pat Sajak or Alex Trebek is the better TV host (don't say Sajak, don't say Sajak). Maybe I'd rather drive a 2000 Focus and consider camping a vacation instead of eating a Soup at Hand and a snack size bag of potato chips for dinner on a Tuesday night. Is that so crazy?

I just want him to come home and make this dinner table feel less like my desk. Here's to hoping this gets easier because blubbering 27-year-old babies are pretty pathetic most times of year.