Sigh.

I finally succumbed.

So here I am on Twitter.

The one.

Not long ago I was emailing someone dear to me about "the one".

The right one. The only one.

We were talking about what if's? What if this person is the right one and he's slipping away? What if I've already found the right person? What if neither one of them is the right one? And isn't it logical that the person who is most like you, and likes the same things as you, would be the right one?

The right one for me was twenty-three when I met him. Terrified of the small people attached to my hips (yes, one on each). Terrified of relationships. Terrified of love. Terrified, dare I say it? Of me.

The right one for me is thirty-three now. Not terrified by the small people who live in our house. Befuddled by them, often. But no longer terrified.

In love.
Not afraid of the future.
Not afraid of me.


Not like me in a lot of ways. The right one for me is a Republican who hates Mexican food and rarely reads. Who watches television news and the weather when I can't stand either.

The right one for me is a lot stronger in his faith than I am in mine. Who makes decisions swiftly and rarely regrets anything. Who, really, honestly didn't realize that not everyone makes up songs and inserts their own names in them to make them more interesting.

Who is not perfect. He frustrates and destracts me to no end sometimes. Who never laughs hard enough at my hilarity. Who is painfully human sometimes.

Who thinks, for God knows what reason? That I'm exactly right for him.


Six years ago, today, I married the right one for me.

I had no idea, none at all, that I would love him more today than I did on that day.


But I do.


Because he's the right one.

Where's that stupid magic 8 ball?

I wish I could see the future.

I hate having decisions to make and not being sure what the right one is.

I hate this headache that I've had for two weeks and can't seem to get rid of.

And I really, really hate being this scared.