You Can Live Without a Pinky, But Why Would You Want To?

I Didn’t Plan a Wedding—So I Planned a Marriage

The wedding formalities were never really for me. I didn’t pick the bridesmaids’ dresses or the color palette, and honestly, I would’ve been perfectly happy with an Elvis situation. I’ve said that before and I mean it.

But at fifteen years, I decided my husband deserved romance—all the romance. He’s the romantic one, not me. I’m just really good at the gesture.

…Shit.

Maybe I am the romantic.

So I planned a surprise backyard wedding.

I invited our family over for a potluck via text message—the same way we invited people the first time, because apparently I’m sentimental like that. Everyone knew what was happening except my husband. Even after I planted trees in the corner of the yard shaped like an altar, he had no idea.

Family arrived. Everyone said nothing. They ate, drank, laughed, and kept the secret beautifully.

Then I herded everyone into the backyard, climbed onto the firepit, thanked them for coming—and proposed to my husband.

I told him if he accepted, he had fifteen minutes to put on his kilt, grab the poem I’d asked him to write for our anniversary, and remarry me.

He said yes.

My Renewed Vows

Point One: Logistics.

When we first got married, I was anti–cold medicine. That has changed. I promise to give you cold medicine when you ask. I promise to take care of you when you’re sick—including throwing up—even though you whine, moan, and it makes me a little sick too. I will do my best to nurture your aches and pains. I also promise to try not to laugh at your minor injuries. At least in front of you.

I make no such promise for the kids.

Point Two: Chores.

We once agreed you’d do trash and car stuff, and I’d do laundry. Since then, I’ve taken out plenty of trash and given birth to two beautiful children who quadrupled both trash and laundry. So I propose this: you do laundry too. We do it together forever. If you accept, say “I do,” and we’ll proceed.

Now that logistics are out of the way, I’ll say the mooshy stuff in front of these good people.

I love you for your humor, resilience, loyalty, and strength. You overcome obstacles and grow from them. I love your directness, your open-mindedness, and that we can speak honestly—even when it’s uncomfortable—and collaborate toward something better.

I love you for loving our children, for working hard to provide, and for grilling (especially cheeseburgers). They adore you. We make a great team. I love being the good cop—thank you. I also love being the bad cop—also thank you. It’s fun to switch it up.

I love that you accept the parts of me that even I barely understand. I love that we still make out like we did in Hillcrest. Tawny asked me not to say that—apparently it traumatized her. High five.

I love your intelligence. I love arguing with you. I love that it’s never boring. I love our shared love of literature, symbolism, and John Steinbeck. I love agreeing with you. I love talking a mess about other people with you. I love sleeping in the car while you drive—unless there’s traffic, because you’re too jerky.

I love going out to eat and holding hands across the table when the kids aren’t there. I love it even more when the kids are there because they think it’s gross—and that’s hilarious. I love sitting in silence with you because I can read your mind, and most of the time, I agree.

You ground me. You give me strength. I once told you I could live without you—and that’s true—but I don’t want to. I want to sleep next to you while you snore like a bear and fart like one, keeping me warm all winter.

You are the Dustin Brown, Kopitar, and Doughty of my LA Kings. I am the Laura to your Petrarch. You are the Patrick to my David. You are the Godzilla to my Mothra. You are the secret ingredient in my spicy ketchup.

I want to kiss your face—even when there’s food in your beard. I want to be your heart and your home. I want to support every hope and dream you have. I would happily join you on any adventure. Every day with you already is one.

I give you this pinky ring because you can live without a pinky—but you should never want to. The pinky helps you hold on. I hold onto you. You are my grip on this world. It’s a skull because… you know why. Our love is everlasting. We’ve lived here before, and we will again. Death does not part us. I will always find you.

I promise to love and care for you on the best days, the worst days, and everything in between. I promise to call you out on your shit and hold you accountable. I promise humility—if I’m wrong, I will stand on a chair, announce it, and apologize. You should clap to positively reinforce this behavior.

I promise to keep finding joy in the little things. I promise I’ll still do most of the laundry. I promise you—in this life and the next—that I see you and celebrate all that you are. My plan is that we grow old together, surrounded by the family we have now and the family still to come.

You are my best good friend.

Namaste.

🌱Good Beet Reflection:

Take a breath. Let the story settle. Then, if you’re willing, sit with one or two of these questions—no need to answer them all.

1. Marking the Ordinary

What moments in your life have quietly matured without being formally acknowledged?

What might it look like to ritualize something you’ve already lived into?

Where has growth happened slowly, without applause?

2. The Logistics of Love

Love is sustained not only by feeling, but by care, labor, and shared responsibility.

What practical agreements hold your closest relationships together right now?

Are any of them due for gentle renegotiation?

What unromantic acts of love keep your life running?

3. Truth-Telling as Intimacy

Where in your relationships do honesty and tenderness coexist?

Where might more truth be needed—not to wound, but to deepen connection?

What conversations would feel like relief if spoken aloud?

4. Being Known

Consider the parts of yourself that are hardest to explain or protect.

Who knows those parts of you?

Where are you learning to be accepted without being edited?

What does it feel like to be fully seen—and still chosen?

5. Joy in the Small Things

Notice the ordinary joys you share with others: silence, shared humor, routine gestures.

Which of these moments anchor you?

Which ones deserve more attention?

What small joy are you already standing inside of?

6. Commitment as Practice

Rather than a single promise, commitment is something we rehearse daily.

What promises are you living out—imperfectly, honestly—right now?

Where might you recommit with intention?

What does showing up look like today?

7. Finding Each Other Again

Love is not static. It asks to be rediscovered.

Where in your life are you being invited to find someone again—a partner, a friend, yourself?

If love is a return, what are you returning to?