On Thursday night this week, my husband approached the bed where I was already curled up, reading and heading towards sleep. He yanked back the covers, and flopped into bed, already muttering the usual litany of mild curses he likes to throw out there on the eve of another workday. Sheeit, I have to work tomorrow, he mutters. Damn it. Sheeit. We laugh like loons about this, because while no doubt, every muttered syllable is heartfelt, it is just so...us?

Thirteen years ago I stood trembling in front of a judge and our immediate families, repeating our vows through a quavering jaw. I didn't cry at my wedding, but only because DJ had an iron grip on my hands, giving me an anchor through a surprisingly (to me) emotional ceremony.

On Friday night, he bounced into bed, sans the profanity, but full of amorous intent. I was already half asleep, again reading, but this time wearing my stupid headgear for my sleep apnea. Disregarding the headgear and the acne medicine dotted on my face, he spooned behind me, and proposed several vulgar options, in terms that had me snorting with laughter. Which is quite a feat with a stupid plastic hose blowing air up your nose.

I'd like to claim that I didn't see this future, but from the moment we met, this was always in the cards. So yeah, we're dorks. We've been dorks since the beginning. We were never a suave couple, and whatever moves we might have had at some point in the past have long since been replaced by crude hand gestures and over-the-top groping. Whatever man. It's all good.