Dear Zube Boy,
Today marks five years that we've been together. I know, Ha Ha, it feels like ten. You're too funny. Hee. But really? I want to thank you. For everything. For all of the laughs and all of the hugs and all of the flowers and all of the support. For proving to me that there are wonderful, wonderful men out there. And that I could actually be lucky enough to fall in love with one. One who would love me back.
Thank you for turning my tears of sorrow into tears of laughter. Thank you for being strong when I'm, well, not so much. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to know that it is possible to love someone more each and every day. Thank you for going to rallies with me and rallying for me. Thank you for asking me, "Are you okay?" and saying, "You'll do fine," when I'm nervous as hell about speaking in front of a large group of people. Even when you are just as nervous, if not more, about being in front of a large group of people.
Thank you for being brave enough to stand by me; the only man among a sea of women. Thank you for being so concerned with what will help me, that you forget to think about how it will put you in the limelight. And I know how much you hate the limelight. You are so understated, it's inspiring. Thank you for being what other men should aspire to be.
Thank you for laughing with me at the dumbass who, after eating Thanksgiving dinner at our house, told a friend that we had a very negative relationship. I hope he enjoyed the arsenic laced turkey, too.
Thank you for eating the tomato stuffed with cous-cous and ranch dressing I made you five years ago today. Even though, now I know, that you hate tomatoes.
I know we joke about the fact that I could have been honey-less, usually when you want me to make you cookies or something and I need a little encouragement. But, all joking aside, when that jeep flipped over, the world stopped. I didn't see anyone else. I didn't hear anyone else. I didn't even notice that I was navigating my way up an 70 degree incline of slippery dirt in flip flops. I think I flew. Or angels carried me. Or something. I only remember hearing, "Oh fuck, they flipped. The jeep. It flipped," and then being there at your side. I don't think I took a breath, until I heard you speak. I don't think I've ever wanted to hug someone forever. Until then.
I know I get all fiercely independent, and I think that's one of the things you admire about me, but all of my, 'I am Zube, hear me ROAR' lunacy aside, you mean the world to me. And I don't know that I'd be meowing, much less ROARING, if I didn't have you there, cheering me on. Or egging me on. Depending on how you look at it.
Thank you for giving me quite possibly the best years of my life so far. And thank you for the years ahead. I know they'll be just as awesome.
Okay, I have to cut this shit out. I've got a lump in my throat, and wet shit in my eyes, and I'm feeling the sudden urge to sing Wind Beneath My Wings. See what you do to me?
Anyway, you rock. I adore the ever-living shit out of you. I only hope that I've been half as much to you as you have been to me.
PS- If you would quit leaving dirty cereal bowls on the side of the bathtub, it'd be possible for you to give me the most PERFECT years of my life. But, I'll settle for best. Oh yeah. It would also help if you'd stop taking fucked up pictures of me.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Dear Zube Boy,