When I was 16, I was going to marry Paul. He had all the qualities I wanted in a husband: he liked kitchen floor sock skiing, sticking his tongue out until it got all dry and funny feeling, and he'd lay down on the sidewalk during rainstorms so that there would be a Paul-shaped dry spot on the pavement afterwards. He'd occasionally play in the sprinklers with the neighborhood kids.
(He scanned his face and emailed it to me a couple years ago to prove that he'd just bought an obscene amount of Cadbury eggs, because we were both in love with them.)
Various and sundry things have happened since then, and I no longer want to marry Paul. But he's still one of my favorite people ever.
Happy birthday, P!
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