My Life as a Novel

We were married four years ago today. Which means that four years ago at the time I'm typing this (6:50 am), I was probably laying awake in bed, squished between several of my girlfriends who'd made it to town early, with a strange mix of excitement and anxiety twisting my stomach into knots.

I knew I wanted to marry you. I knew I was doing the right thing. And it was our decision. But that bittersweet anxiety mixed with sadness and a large dose of excitement ... I think every bride can identify with that. Questioning whether all the preparations are made. Whether everybody's going to remember what they're supposed to do. Whether I've done everything I'm supposed to do. And throw in a little hurricane chaos ... just for good measure.

But still, at seven o'clock that evening, dressed to the nines (even with bare feet) I stepped out in confidence, knowing that I had been chosen by you. That we were choosing each other over every other potential mate the world had to offer, over the naysayers, over our families, and over anything else that might threaten to pull us apart. This, we determined, is the path we would travel, and we would do so together.

And, in a similar fashion, every day as I walk out of the house (never dressed as nicely but often still with bare feet), I meet the world as Mrs. Kyle Polk. Chosen. Loved. And bound to annoy the same man for the rest of our lives. Lucky you.

Let's have another 4, and then 14 and then 40. Shall we?