One year.

I am a wife. I love saying it out loud. I can’t get enough of it.

 We get married hoping that our marriage is going to be as perfect as our wedding day. Perfect morning kisses, deep conversations, loving the same television shows and laughing on cue, holding hands while strolling in the garden with a home filled with potted plants, cushions with just the right amount “cush”, sprawling windows that romance sunshine.  My version of marriage wasn’t so skewed. I don’t expect things to be perfect all the time.

Whoever said marriage is hard work wasn't joking.  Suddenly two different people share a life, a bed, and well luckily not in my case, a bathroom. You’re not born family, but you become family. You scream, cry, love, nurse hangovers, laugh, and bitch together. And at each other.

Your problems become his problems and his become yours. You can’t make decisions on your own because now your decisions affect two people. Me, myself and I is now me, my husband and us.

My husband is married to a drama queen. And I am married to a teenage boy. I mother him, he revolts. He says something in jest; I take it personally and banish him from our bedroom. He plays loud music as I try to read. He tries to lie, I play detective.

Yes, it’s really not easy.  But while we are caught up in compromise, constant changes and trivial fights about whether we spend more time with his friends or mine, we start to understand each other better. And I fall in love a little more each day. I love our inside jokes. I love that we can understand each other in between mouthfuls of toothpaste. I love that we sometimes dance for each other at random times of the day. I love that he can feel my moods change. I love that I can burp after eating a kathi kabab stuffed with raw onions. I love that I can lie next to him in my glasses and hair dripping with sarso ka tel and he’ll still kiss me. I love that we talk to each other like bros.  I love that we plan holidays we can’t afford. I love that around him I am me.

I realize that no matter how much sunshine pours through windows or how cushy your cushions are, there is no such thing as a perfect home. The perfect home is made up of two imperfect people that learn to love each other no matter what. In sickness, in health, or bad hair days.

So I have my moments of insecurity, anger and doubt and I go to bed angry, snarl and mutter under my breath. But then….. someone farts and we explode with laughter. And just like that, we aren’t angry anymore. I am instantly reminded of how lucky I am to be next to the man I love. Sometimes it takes a fart to bring you back to reality. Trust me, it works.