It occurred to me last week, when we were signing our marriage license, that (once upon a time) I was divorced, married and then divorced again in a 15-month period. Talk about some sheeeeeeeet.

Wild to think that was over five years ago now. Usually I say I was married “one and a half times”, considering I ditched number two after about 10 days.

On 23 August, I married my finally forever. David was our witness, cigars were smoked. There’s a certain silence of love that I once attempted to capture in a story, many moons ago, when I was married to husband number one. I think I missed the mark back then, but now I reckon I’m totally onto something.

Anyone who’s met me live-time knows I’m a poet – regardless of how under-thrilled I am about the connotation connected with this on the daily. I love love, I was totally in love with being in love before it was cool.

There’s a comfort and security connected to the emotional orb surrounding my husband and I. It’s like a precious lull.

I’m in the midst of deciding on Australia or back to Spain for our next adventure. Today we’re getting a car and driving to Connecticut. I found a real, actual man in a world where I literally tried to settle – twice.

That isn’t even like me, I’m totally glad I won’t have to deal with that again.

For real.

Naturally he’s a Spanish Viking who I stumbled across in midtown Manhattan…