Pizza and love letters.

This week, Ryan and I celebrated our second anniversary in style. Lazy style,

eating Dominos pizza while we sprawled on the couch in our shorts and tanks,

sweating in the unusually warm evening air and our lack of air conditioning. 

Romantic, right? (We try.) We had planned on dressing up for a fancy Mexican dinner out,

but after bidding our guests farewell at the airport the afternoon of our anniversary, I looked at Ryan, exhausted and guilty, and said, "Can we just go home?" All this homebody really wanted to do was cuddle up on the couch with my husband, our stinky pups and a pizza. And so we did.

Two years isn't so long, but I think we're beginning to settle into a semi-normal married routine.

He knows the chances of coming home to a spotless house are pretty slim.

I know the chances of him arriving home from work before dinner aren't too high, either. 

But our marriage is still young enough that the newlywed sparkle hasn't worn off.

I love to see mail addressed to both of us, I love waking up on the weekends to Ryan sleeping

beside me (and then waiting a few minutes as long as I can 

before the dogs and I pounce on him to wake him, too). 

Sometimes when I'm at home by myself during the day, I'll be struck with just how lucky

I am to be married to such a wonderful, amazing man...

someone who has known me for years, who puts up with my quirks,

who can finish my sentences and supports me in my quest for a career in writing. 

The summer before we were married, Ryan was living in Kansas City for an internship

and I was a three hour drive away. For three months leading up to our wedding day we saw

each other only a few times, and being apart gave me an idea for a special wedding gift for him.

I kept a journal that summer and every night I wrote him a letter with my thoughts,

my worries, my fears and my excitement. Mostly excitement. 

There are a LOT of exclamation points littering the pages of those letters. 

This week, I pulled it out again and read through some of the pages - lists of things I love about Ryan, accounts of my DIY wedding decorations and countdowns written in huge block letters - and I came across the story of how Ryan and I started dating. We've never really known the precise day we started dating seven years ago. And I don't remember the first time we said, "I love you" either. Our relationship was one of those that transitioned from a close friendship into a relationship in a way that wasn't quite clear cut. But we always marked our dating anniversary on December 5th, the day one of Ryan's best friends was killed in a car accident. It was the middle of the school day, and we were in different classes at the time when we found out about the accident. Our entire class was sent into the auditorium to grieve and I remember walking down the hall with my friends just thinking about how badly I needed to find Ryan. 

We weren't exactly dating, but he was the one person I needed to be with in that moment. 

We were each others' rock through that situation, and our relationship took off from there. 

In our first two years of marriage, we've experienced a lot. We've found success and failure. We've laughed until we cried and we've gotten into arguments that ended with me laughing at how ridiculous I must look when I have my angry face on.
And we've been there to hold each other up through more tragedy. 

We've grown up together and I'm so lucky to have a husband who has loved me since I 

was a crazy, emotionally volatile, sweatpants-obsessed 16 year old. 

We still have growing up to do and trials to face, 

but as long as I can do it all with my best friend by my side, I know I'll make it through anything.

And even when we're celebrating with pizza and sweaty tank tops,
I couldn't think of anything more romantic than that.