After 23 years, she’s still here, so I must be doing something right

Thank you, Lauren, for putting up with me on a daily basis.  

When we met in Washington, D.C., 23 years ago, it was love (and lust) at first sight. When we said our vows 3-1/2 years later, what you didn’t know was that you were also signing up for the newspaper business.  

You’ve written stories, taken photos, sold ads, laid out ads in the paper, and now you’re our Director of Finance. You pay other people before we pay ourselves, make the uncomfortable A.R. phone calls, and keep our books balanced. And despite all that, you still believe me when I say, “Next year, we’ll be more successful.”  

You wait the extra 10 minutes before serving dinner because I just need a little more time to finish up my work. And when I inevitably need extra time after that, you don’t mind starting dinner without me. Also, you’re a darn good cook.  

During COVID, you managed your Halston Media job while simultaneously ensuring our son was paying attention to his teacher on Google Classroom.  

You patiently wait for me to get out of the car because I have to respond to some text or email. And you do the same when we get back into the car. Basically, you do a lot of waiting for me.  

You worry about my health but strike a much better balance than my mom (sorry Mom) when it comes to encouraging me without nagging. And no matter how much weight I’ve gained since we met (or how much hair has disappeared from my head and reappeared in other places), you never make me feel any less handsome. Plus, you’re still as hot as the day I met you.  

You don’t murder me in my sleep, even though I’m worth more dead than alive. For that, I’m eternally grateful.  

You could start your own Uber business with the amount of shuttling you do for our kids.  

When I ask you to sign things, you trust that I’m not secretly putting offshore accounts in your name.  

You’re a homebody like me, preferring our family room couch over going out.  

I love that you let me declare appetizer night instead of you making a formal meal.  

I appreciate that you massage my feet while we watch TV—even though they’re probably stinky.  

I love that you’re both a band mom and a wrestling mom and that you yell “sprawl” and “cross face” like the craziest of crazy wrestling moms.

There is no one else on this earth with whom I’d rather spend my life. This is partly because I love you—and partly because I know you’re the only person who would tolerate all my foibles.  

Happy Valentine’s Day, my sweet love.  

And to all the men reading this column—I apologize in advance. If you need an editor for your Valentine’s note, give me a call.