I’ve been working this last week to finally settle into our house. I know you’re probably thinking, “gee, didn’t you move in like two months ago?” Yes. We did. But life took off pretty quickly (thank God) when we got here, and I just hadn’t found the time. Plus, I didn’t have much in the decoration department because we were the first to live in our last home, so Mr. Husband was paranoid and wouldn’t allow any holes in the walls. We lived within bare, white walls for over a year. Enough, I think.
I’m a sentimental person. I think entirely too much. I analyze everything. I put myself into other people’s heads all the time. This can be both good and bad. As I hang things on our walls, I see our life coming together. I see these things hanging on our future walls of our future homes with our future kids running around. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on little doo-dads that I find at Hobby Lobby or little paintings I create for our living room walls, but I throw almost nothing away. What I have now, I’ll have ten years from now. It matters to me. And Mr. Husband just rolls his eyes and tells me “Looks great, babe.” Thank you.
Then my mind wanders. I think about ex-boyfriends. One, who hurt me the most, in particular. And I wonder what he would think of how my little life has turned out. Maybe I’m being too honest, but when we first broke up, I’d hoped my life would end up just like this. I’d hoped that I’d find happiness and stop wishing that he’d come back to me. And I hoped somewhere down the line, years and years later, we’d run into each other. I’d be happy and settled down with a man who actually, really loved me. And he’d still be on his own, trying to find his way. Maybe that’s petty and mean of me. But I can’t be the only girl in the world who suffered a nasty break up who thought these things. Who hoped for these things.
And now, it’s years and years (and years and years and YEARS) later. I’m happy and settled down. I have a happy little dog and happy little cats. I have a husband who actually really, really loves me. And whom I actually really, really love. I have a real kitchen table, and I cook dinners in far more than we go out. I wear a ring around my finger that my husband bought me when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. We have a place to hang our keys, and the place I call home, he does too.
So with every picture I hang on the wall, I take a step further away from the life I had into the life that I always wished I had. And the sixteen year old girl inside of me can’t believe it all actually happened.