Growing up nerdy, spazzy and kind of sickly, I knew it was going to take a special kind of guy to see past all that. It’s not every guy willing to take on the geeky writer with big hair and a flair for the dramatic. I certainly didn’t bank on finding the love of my life at 18.
We met in high school, stuck together through four (and a half) years of college at rival universities. As I got sicker and sicker, he was right there with me, making excuses for the parties I couldn’t attend and planning meals around bathroom locations.
When my doctor told me nothing was wrong, he encouraged me to find a new one. And even though I was a hot mess, he still wanted to marry me.
When I got my celiac diagnosis last year, my husband was my strongest supporter. He let me cry and rage, and occasionally had to deflect flying boxes of cereal when I was in a particularly angry mood. He’s given up so much of what he loved, too, to make me feel safe in our house.
He will eat any meal I prepare, no questions asked.
He surprises me with gluten-free cupcakes.
He knows how to quiz waitstaff at a restaurant like nobody’s business.
He defends me to the folks who don’t understand.
He’s the one who encouraged me to start blogging.
Every day, no matter how much of a nasty troll I’ve been to him, he tells me he loves me and that he’s proud of me.
And he never, never eats donuts in front of me.
That’s love, my friends.