My last name has been Armstrong for six years today. I couldn’t be more proud to share the name of the person I like the most. I think he is the most funny, the most genuine, the most handsome, and the most brave.
He brings out the best version of me but he gives me grace when I’m my worst.
We giggle at the same things. Like Michael Scott’s pitiful monologues. Or the woman who greeted us in the hotel elevator this weekend and asked us in a smoker’s British/country accent, “So what ah you two doin fo da forf?”
He reminds me of truth. Sometimes subtly, sometimes bluntly.
We are fully aware that each other is imperfect but are absolutely perfect for each other.
He puts toothpaste on my toothbrush.
I told him at the onset of our relationship that if he was going to “be drama for me,” I wanted nothing to do with him. He’s proven trustworthy ever since.
He encourages me to do the things I love. No matter how inconvenient…or sweaty.
He pursues me.
We take the tomatoes off our salad.
He gives his best effort when “folding” (aka: wadding) clothes.
We pray together.