My husband is a unique man. He is simple without being simple-minded, caring without being enabling, gentle while maintaining a backbone. He displays humility in all his facets, from intelligence to his appearance. His stunning blue eyes emit kindness and a cool confidence, his art reflects his observations without the need to boast or fling himself into the spotlight. He stands slightly taller than most women, comfortable with blending into the crowd and safe in his identity without needing public adulation. He laughs with ease. He never lies. He always returns home on time. He automatically leaps into an intelligent, compassionate role immediately upon realizing that his support is needed. He has a prominent nose, a sharp jawline, and a subtle, playful smile that makes me giddy and warm inside. He listens to Rush, Queen, Pink Floyd, and Elton John. He is a fan of both Star Trek and Star Wars. He performs professionally and artistically with care and attention to detail, without regard for the positive results his work may garner. He races cars and plans to build his own electric model. He creates art for the sheer pleasure of it without worrying about it’s economic worth or sensibility. He is well-read and is prone to making obscure literary or historic references with ease. He plays the guitar. He collects graphic novels. He smiles the widest when his daughter squeals and runs to him when he walks through the door at the end of the day. He does not wear cologne. He cannot start his day without taking a shower. He takes brilliantly-composed photos. He makes love as though he invented sensuality singlehandedly. He sleeps with more peace and more beauty than I’ve ever seen in a man. 

My husband’s love for me is unquestionable. He brings me flowers when I am least expecting them and tells me I’m beautiful every day, despite my protests. He keeps every loving note or letter I’ve ever given him tucked away in a personal drawer, amongst his most prized possessions. In my darkest hours, he stands by my side, holding my hand and protecting me from any other offenses while nursing me back to health. His dreams always include me, and he never describes them without hoping that I will share in his enthusiasm. He confidently persuades me to let myself be his muse. He loves to spend Sunday afternoons teaching me how to paint, how to draw, how to take better photographs. He spent all the money he received from his college graduation to buy me an engagement ring that I “could be proud of”, even though he was jobless, even though we were terrified at the prospect of soon becoming parents, even though I diligently begged him not to. He knows when my demons are misrepresenting me and waits patiently until I’ve returned to my normal Self. He does not accept me performing below my abilities and strongly urges me to make progress, to push myself forward, to better my life, regardless of the fear of cost or possible failure. He never speaks ill of me, even when those around him are living up to the stereotypes of spouses complaining about each other. He boasts about my accomplishments to others, which I hear about later from those who admire his candid praise. He listens to me prattle on about my opinions or my perspective or my ideas for hours on end. He sees art in me when I do not. He sees promise in me when I cannot. He cherishes our shared memories more than tangible gifts we’ve exchanged. He forgives my mistakes without judging my character. He calms my fears of the future by reminding me that it will always be “our future”. He has changed my beliefs about the practicality and logic of the conventional institution of marriage. 

My husband’s unwavering love gives me sanctuary to love and live in complete, ecstatic, careless freedom.

My husband has never been loved more by any woman than he is by me. He is the first man I think about when I wake up and the reason I sleep every night, next to him, with an idiotic, contented smile across my lips. He is responsible for the giddy realizations of joy and gratitude that sneak up on me every few days. He will have me proudly leading him around, guiding his footsteps in the uncertain changes of old age. He will be the only and last man that I call my husband. He will be the template to which I compare all our daughter’s suitors. He will never fight battles (whether internal or external) without me standing proudly behind him. He has me excited about automatically performing such dreadfully un-feminist chores such as doing his laundry, cleaning his house, massaging his feet. He is the reason I shudder suddenly while I’m lost in thought, remembering the excitement of his touch, often at the most inopportune moments. He never leaves the house without me flinging my arms around him and wishing him a wonderful day. He will always have me at the ready to tend to his wounds, shelter him from blows, nurse him to health, catch him when he loses his footing. He endures the downpour of kisses I maniacally cover him with at the end of each day. He still sends the butterflies in my stomach into a frenzy when he returns to me unexpectedly. He has made me forget the specifics of arousal or physical sensations I may have felt with my former suitors. He makes me excited to share my entire life, my entire self with such unabashed intimacy. He makes me optimistic about the life we’re slowly building together. 

My husband is the man I always longed for and never believed existed.