What We Promise

When you stand in front of everyone you know and a few people you don't and say the words that have been said a billion times before— they will still feel new. Because the words are not the promise. The promise is the look. The one that says: I have seen the version of you that nobody else gets to see— the 3 a.m. version, the crying-in-the-car version, the version that can't find the keys and blames the universe— and I am choosing that one too. Marriage is not a feeling. It's a decision you make on a Tuesday when the romance has left the building and what remains is a person who loads the dishwasher wrong but shows up every single time it matters. You will fight about things that don't deserve the energy. You will forget the anniversary at least once. You will wonder, on the hard days, what it would be like to only have to think about yourself. And then you'll see them across the room at someone else's wedding, laughing with your mother, and something will remind you why you chose this— not because it's easy but because it's the most interesting thing you've ever done. So here's the truth they don't put in the vows: I will be bored with you. I will be boring with you. And I will choose that— deliberately, repeatedly, joyfully— because boring with you is better than exciting with anyone else.