It was my first solo trip. Me and the boy were going to visit the boyfriend/baby daddy. He was stationed at Kaneohe Bay in Oahu. He’d been there for about a year, and I had been DYING to go visit and get
I had taken time off work, I was going to stay with a couple he knew who had a small apartment in Honolulu. Seven days. I was going to go to the beach, see the sights, and go to a Hula show. He was going to take leave, so we could do all that and whatever else we could squeeze in during my time there.
I was excited. And nervous. I was going to take a 5 hour flight with a 2 year old. Alone.
He was there to meet us when we got off the plane (Do you know how long ago it was when you could be standing at the gate to hug people as soon as deplaned? A LIFETIME ago. Damn! I’m old). He drove us around in his friend’s car, took me to the base to introduce me to his friends. We went out for dinner. Sizzler, because we’re fancy like that.
We did a shitload of sight-seeing. I went to an awesome hula show. I went to the mall and rode a tram (because the mall is THAT BIG). We shopped at the flea market, and ate shave ice. I bought a coconut bra. I was having so much fun, I didn’t want to go home.
Then, I missed my flight. I came back to my room, and made a few phone calls.
And then I missed my flight again.
After I finished cussing because dammit I need to get back to California asshole, I have a job and SHIT TO DO there I can’t keep missing my flight because you can’t get me to the fucking airport on time, he asked me to marry him.
18 years ago this afternoon, I stood on Waimea Beach and married the boy I have been in love with since I was 16 years old. I love you from the boy who used to get into fist fights (before/during) after school to the man who fought wars.
Happy Anniversary, baby.