Talking to one of my favorite wedding guests today, we chuckled that I’ve married three men on three different continents. We concluded that number two was more of a disaster than number one, and we kicked our heels at this new “real man” discovery I have graciously embarked on. I was never destined to marry an American man. Hence the pseudo three-month / marriage / nervous breakdown good good I endured by accidentally getting married a few months after divorce number one.
In other news, I was promoted at work to Senior Lord Writer. Or as they say in New York City, Vice President Writer. The greatest part has been my husband referring to me as Vice President. It’s uniquely entertaining considering his military background.
Today is the first day of September. Not only does that mean my birthday, it means no work. And no work means no glowing screens, including phones. We’ve been talking about Spain and Gloucester. My husband coaches rugby, we’re considering a dip there for my birthday.
At the end of the day, tearing through three husbands in 38.9 years stands for something – I reckon. I’m currently watching the sun come up after a later afternoon / evening with someone who means everything to me and is a true reason to celebrate being born.